


We Were Made Tender Together

by knittycat99



Series: The Music and the Mirror [1]
Category: Glee
Genre: Adoption, Ballet, Canonical Character Death, Child Abuse, Domestic Violence, M/M, Music, New York City, Puckurt Big Bang, Puckurt Big Bang 2013, Teen Pregnancy
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-07-26
Updated: 2013-07-26
Packaged: 2017-12-21 09:46:42
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 22,659
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/898841
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/knittycat99/pseuds/knittycat99
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Kurt is a trainee with the Joffrey Ballet in New York, but his dreams lie in another city.  Noah Puckerman is a music student/street musician who doesn’t let himself dream because dreams are expensive and he doesn’t have the capital to spare.  A series of chance encounters brings Noah and Kurt together, but will their dreams (or lack of them) tear them apart?</p>
            </blockquote>





	We Were Made Tender Together

**Author's Note:**

> Warnings for canon-compliant character death. non-graphic discussions of domestic violence against adults and children, and teenage pregnancy and adoption.
> 
> This story was expertly beta'ed by Odd. gemniwmn gave it a final once-over for those errant commas I'm so fond of. Both of them were invaluable through the process of writing this.
> 
> The amazing art is by Charlie. I couldn't have asked for a better collaboration; it was such a treat getting to watch these pictures come to life.
> 
> There will be a one shot in this universe forthcoming; it's something I desperately wanted to write but it didn't fit the scope of this story.

**Kurt, Lima OH: Kindergarten-Fifth Grade**

Kurt dresses himself carefully.  The small buttons on his dress shirt are stiff, but he keeps trying and gets them all buttoned.  He tucks his shirt into his pants, like Daddy taught him, and ties his shoes in neat bows; he’s always happy when his bunny ears stand nice and stiff.  He slides into his jacket, and admires his reflection in the mirror.  The only thing missing is his tie, but he doesn’t know how to tie the bow ones yet. 

“Mommy!” he calls, and runs out of his room and up the hall to his parents’ room, his special snowflake tie in his hand.  “Mommy, I can’t do my tie.”

His mother is standing in front of her mirror putting her earrings in.  She’s wearing the shimmery blue dress they picked out together before Thanksgiving.  “Oh, you’re so _pretty_ ,” Kurt exclaims.

She turns and smiles at him, and kneels down to look at him.  “You’re so handsome, baby.  Here,” she takes his tie and slips it under the collar of his shirt.  “Let’s get this on and then we can go.”

“What’s it going to be like at the ballet?” Kurt asks.

“Well,” his mom tells him as her fingers work the fabric of his tie into a neat bow, “it’s like a play or a movie, but there isn’t any talking.”

Kurt twists his face up.  “Then how do you know what’s happening?”

His mom smiles.  “Because the dancers tell the story with their bodies.  I think you’ll like it, baby.”

“I hope so,” Kurt says, waiting while his mom puts her shoes on.  “I’m excited.”

“I am, too,” she tells him and takes his hand.

**

Kurt is the only boy at Natalie Harkness’ _Nutcracker_ birthday party.  Elizabeth hadn’t realized when she’d called Gail Harkness with the RSVP that Kurt was the only boy even _invited_.  She feels a momentary pang of sadness watching Kurt watching the girls, but as soon as the orchestra starts tuning up he settles into his seat and sits up as straight as he can.  His eyes are sparkling and he is smiling.

“Kurt is such a little gentleman,” Leah Andrews says, leaning over in front of Amy Williams so that she doesn’t disturb the people around them _or_ the children, who are fidgeting in the row in front of them.

Elizabeth just nods and smiles politely.  She knows what Leah means, knows what it means that Kurt was the only boy invited to the party.  She knew what it meant when Kurt had asked for those heels for his birthday, and when he demanded to know how to set the toy table for **_high_** _tea, Mommy, not just **regular** tea_.  She’s whispered her fears to Burt in their darkened bedroom more nights than she can count; she has even wondered if it was the right thing to let him come to this party.  He’d been so excited when he brought the invitation home, though, and Burt had just shrugged and told her to _let him go, what can it hurt?_

It can’t hurt much, Burt is right, and Elizabeth wonders if maybe it will be good for Kurt.

**

A week after the party, Elizabeth makes sure she’s early to pick Kurt up after school.  She moves through the crowd of parents in the hall until she’s standing next to Gail Harkness.  “You created a monster,” she says low, over the voices around them.  “Kurt keeps dancing through the house and he’s _begging_ for ballet lessons.”

Gail laughs.  “He caught the _Nutcracker_ bug, did he?”

Elizabeth nods.  “I got a DVD at the library, thought it was like the one we saw, but it was an older one with Baryshnikov.  I didn’t think he’d like it, but he’s watched it every night since we got it.  Where does Natalie go for her dance lessons?”

Gail purses her lips.  “Do you really think that’s a good idea?”

Elizabeth shakes her head.  “What?”

“Well.  I mean, Kurt is already a little . . . _you know_.”

“A little what?”

Gail lowers her voice.  “Effeminate.  Are you sure you want to send him to dance classes?  He’s _not_ a girl.”

“No, he’s not,” Elizabeth frowns.  “Kurt is just fine.  Dance lessons for Christmas are going to make him the happiest kid in the world.”

Gail just sort of splutters at Elizabeth until the classroom door swings open and the kids tumble into the hall.

Elizabeth sweeps Kurt into her arms and kisses the side of his cheek.  She’ll just call over to the community center; maybe they offer classes or can tell her who does.

**

“The girls don’t have to wear socks,” Kurt frowns.  He kicks his feet into the empty air below the locker-room bench. 

“Nope,” his mom smiles as she helps him tug his socks so they’re not slouchy at all.  “They have to wear _tights_.  Trust me, socks are so much better.”

“If you say so.”  Kurt doesn’t believe her, but it kind of doesn’t matter.  He’s _so_ excited for his first dance class, and he _loves_ the way his new ballet slippers feel, just like butter.  He puts them on and turns his feet from side to side, admiring them.  “I’m really going to learn _ballet_?” he squeaks, rocking side-to-side  a little on the bench.

“Yes, baby,” his mom says.  “C’mon, hop down.  You don’t want to be late on your first day.”

**

There’s a lot that Kurt loves about his ballet class.  He likes that there are rules to follow about how to behave, and that all the exercises always happen in the same order.  He likes the music, and the way that Miss Katherine smiles and tells him _good job, Kurt_ when they get to do big jumps in the center.  He _especially_ likes the end of class, when they do the _reverence_ ; bowing to Miss Katherine shows respect, and Miss Katherine _always_ tells them that they had a good class before she dismisses them.

In March, Kurt brings home a flier for his parents about the recital – “a _recital_ , Daddy!” he shouts, climbing into his dad’s lap after dinner – that’s going to be at the high school in May.  “Miss Katherine says that my class is going to be _birds_ and we’ll be all different colors and there’ll be _feathers_ and I get to be _purple!_ ”

“That’s great, buddy,” his dad says; even if his face doesn’t show it, his voice is laughing.  He ruffles Kurt’s hair, tugs him back against his chest, and they watch a _Reading Rainbow_ together before Kurt’s bath.

**

“You don’t think it’s too much, do you?”  Elizabeth slides into bed next to Burt and settles her head against his chest.  “I just can’t help thinking about how awful Gail Harkness was that day.”

“I dunno, Lizzie.  Kurt’s so excited and Katherine doesn’t seem to think it’s a big deal.  She has other boys at the studio, right?  I think we should just trust her.”  Burt’s voice is level.  He seems almost too calm about this.

“You sure you’re okay with your son taking ballet?”  They’ve talked about this a lot, but Elizabeth likes to check in periodically.  Besides, it’s one thing to be okay with your son taking ballet and another thing all together being okay with said son getting onstage in a purple bird costume with feathers.

Burt laughs, warm and fond.  “I’ve had a couple of years to get used to the idea that I’m not gonna be teaching Kurt how to play football or baseball.  I just want him happy, Lizzie.  If that means all those damn tea parties and these classes then hell, let him do it.”  His chest shakes with laughter under her head.  “God, you shoulda seen him after dinner.  He was so excited.”

“We’re so lucky,” Elizabeth says into the dark. 

“Kurt’s a great kid.”

“I meant Kurt and me,” she sighs happily.  “We’re lucky to have you.”

**

Kurt closes his eyes and frowns.  "Don't _poke_ me, Mommy!"  He knows why he needs make-up; Miss Katherine told them it's so that they don't look like ghosts on the stage because the lights are really bright, but it still feels funny.  He's a little afraid of the eyeliner because the end is sharp.  The powder made his nose itchy and he keeps wanting to rub at his eyes; he thinks it’s kind of funny that even the boys have to wear eye shadow and lipstick.  But he loves his costume, especially the way the fabric is smooth and cool against his skin.  The feathers aren't heavy at all and they sort of float around him when he turns. 

He's a little nervous and all the girls in his class are running around squealing.  They're pretty loud.  Kurt wishes there were a little quiet space somewhere for him to close his eyes and imagine the dance.

"Stop squirming, baby," his mom says.  She waits while he sits back in the chair, closes his eyes, and just lets her finish.

At first his reflection in the mirror looks really weird.  He's not sure he likes the way the blush makes his cheeks so pink, but the little boy looking back at him is kind of grownup and like he's special and different for a good reason, and Kurt definitely likes the idea of being special instead of just weird and different for _no_ reason.

He thinks he should feel strange being the only boy in his class, but he passes another boy backstage, maybe his age, but a lot taller, in a glittery gold jacket and jazz shoes, swallowed up in another group of girls, and he doesn't feel so alone even though he doesn't even know who the other boy is.

He's nervous, once he's on stage, but he manages to remember most of the dance; he definitely does better than Katie Perkins who forgets the whole thing and just sits by the front of the stage crying while everyone else dances.  Miss Katherine ends up having to come out onstage and carry her away, which is _so_ embarrassing.  Kurt's really glad that didn't happen to him.

Afterwards, after Kurt's changed into his street clothes and Mommy helps him smear his face with cold cream and wipes the make-up away with tissues, she and Daddy take him out for an ice cream sundae. When they get home Mommy lets him watch the first act of his favorite Nutcracker video before bed, even though it's late.  Daddy gives him his bath and they giggle together about the little smear of cold cream Daddy finds behind his ear.  Daddy tucks him in, reads him half a chapter of _James and the Giant Peach_ , and whispers to him in the dark before he leaves.  _I love you, Kiddo_ , and _I'm so proud of you._

Kurt loves the way his Daddy makes him feel so safe all the time.

**

When Kurt starts second grade he gets to take two dance lessons a week.  Mommy thinks he should try tap or jazz, but Kurt shakes his head and tells her no.

"Just ballet.  Please just ballet."

"There are other boys in tap and jazz," Mommy tells him.  Kurt frowns at her around his glass of milk.

"I don't care.  All my friends are taking two ballet classes."  He only gets to see them at class, Victoria and Alanna and Jamie, because they go to Independence and he goes to Freedom.

"Okay," Mommy sighs, checking the box for the Tuesday/Thursday ballet class with Miss Heidi.

**

"Your mom is late, Kurt?"  Miss Katherine watches while he slips into the studio and curls under the barre at the front to watch the Intermediate class; they're doing _petit battements_ , a lot faster than what Kurt's own Advanced Beginner class gets, and he sort of wants to get up and join them, but he's already changed and in his coat.

"Yes, Miss Katherine," he says solemnly.  "She was going to the store."

Miss Katherine smiles at him.  "She probably had to wait in line.  Wait here until she comes." 

Kurt waits and watches through _rond de jambes_ and _developpes_ and _grand battements_.  When the class moves to the center, he tries not to panic.  Mommy has never been this late before.  After Miss Katherine finishes demonstrating the _petite allegro_ , she glances over at him.  "Why don't you go to the office, Kurt, and ask Josie to call your dad, okay?"

"Okay," Kurt nods, uncurling himself and hoisting his dance bag to his shoulder.  He's out in the hall, just about to open the office door, when the studio door swings open and his dad is there.  He looks funny like he's mad or sad or scared, and everything suddenly feels too big and fast and far away.  His dad is on his knees in front of Kurt hugging him and telling him he's so sorry but Mommy -

\- and Kurt doesn't understand, what about Mommy?

He tries to hear what Daddy is telling him, but all he can hear is the music and Miss Katherine calling out the steps, and nothing feels real except for Kurt's body and the way he knows the steps like the beating of his own heart, _glissade, jeté, pas de bourrée, assemblé, sissone, soutenou, sauté_.

He doesn't even realize he's crying until Daddy is carrying him into the changing room and sitting him on the edge of the sink, wiping his face with a wet paper towel and then holding him close against the scratchy wool of his coat.  "We'll be okay," Daddy tells him over and over.  "Just you and me now, Buddy."

He lets Daddy carry him to the car and buckle him into the backseat, and then from the car into the house and right into his bed even though he's still wearing his clothes. Daddy smooths his hair and tells him how much Mommy loved them, will always love them and be a part of them even though now it's just us, the Hummel Men against the world.

Kurt knows his Dad is trying, but nothing can make this better.

He plays the steps over in his head, _glissade, jeté, pas de bourrée, assemblé, sissone, soutenou, sauté_.  His dad's voice becomes his mom's, becomes Miss Katherine's, becomes the music; he can hear it and feel it breathing with him and moving inside of him.  It doesn't smooth everything, but it helps.

**

The counselor he and his dad go to once the funeral is over and all the relatives are gone says that Kurt is avoiding, especially when he refuses to talk during their appointments.

Kurt just doesn’t know how to _say_ anything, because there’s nothing _to_ say.  His mom is gone and she isn’t coming back, and no words are going to make that better.

Ballet is the only thing that makes sense anymore.

Ballet is the only thing that’s easy.  Ballet is the only place where nobody wants Kurt to talk about his feelings or be strong, or feel anything at all.

Ballet is the only place where Kurt _doesn’t_ feel.

He dances so he doesn’t have to feel.  He dances to make himself tired so that he can fall asleep without crying. 

He dances to remember his mom.

Somewhere in the middle of all of that, he realizes that dancing makes him feel free and whole.

Kurt wishes that his mom were still there with him so that he could tell her his dreams.  He wants to be a dancer and it shouldn’t matter that he’s only eight.

He wants to be a dancer.  Backstage before his class goes onstage at the recital he grabs Victoria, Jamie, and Alanna and makes them all pinky swear that they’ll dream it with him.

**

The week before fourth grade ends, Miss Katherine hands out class assignments for the following year.  Everyone in his class leaves with a yellow slip of paper, except for Kurt, but then Miss Katherine calls Kurt over and hands him an envelope.

“Give this to your father, Kurt.  It’s information about the Toledo Ballet School.”

Kurt stares down at his shoes.  They’re a little snug against his toes, but there’s no point getting a new pair now.  “You really think I should go to Toledo?”

Miss Katherine smiles at him.  “I can’t teach you what you need here anymore.  You’ll have to take a placement class in the fall.  There’s another local student who goes up there, I’ve put his parents’ information in that letter so your father can talk to them.”

“Th- _thank_ you,” Kurt stammers. 

“You’re welcome, Kurt.”

Kurt moves aside so the Intermediate class can get into the studio, holding the letter carefully.  The girls crowd around him in the entryway, asking him if he’s okay, why he didn’t get a placement slip, what Miss Katherine wanted.

“I’m going to Toledo,” he says in a whisper, afraid that if he says it out loud it won’t be real anymore.

_Oh_ , the girls gasp collectively, and squeal over him.  Victoria hugs him and tells him she’s happy for him, but he can see in her eyes that she’s a little sad, too.  Jamie and Alanna quit ballet in the fall for gymnastics and cheerleading, but Victoria has the same dreams that Kurt does.  He wishes they could go to Toledo together.

“Maybe next year you can come too,” he tells her, but he somehow knows that isn’t going to happen.

Kurt’s going to have to live this part of his dream alone.

**

Kurt knows Mike Chang from school; he was smart and silent in Kurt's fourth grade class, but they’re not in the same fifth grade.  Kurt had no idea that Mike even took dance lessons, much less that he was Toledo Ballet quality good. 

Mrs. Chang drives the boys on Mondays and Saturdays for Advanced Beginning Ballet and Kurt’s dad takes them on Thursdays for Boys' Class.  It's a lot of driving; Mike teaches Kurt tricks to doing homework in the car and they share the earbuds on one of their MP3 players to pass the time.  They trade snacks and sweatshirts.  Some nights after their Boys' Class they fall asleep on each other in the backseat of Kurt’s dad’s car, curled up in a nest of blankets and clothes and dance bags.

By Nutcracker time, they are best friends.  Kurt’s never had a best friend before.

Performing on stage in Toledo, in an actual ballet with more than one performance, is a rush.  Kurt never knew that it could feel like that, being part of something big.  In Miss Katherine's recitals, he was just one kid among many, his class just one of more than twenty.   But in Nutcracker, in his party clothes and soldier's costume, it's all new.

After the finale and the bows, Mike grabs him and hugs him backstage.  “Isn’t it _amazing_?” he gushes.  Kurt giggles because Mike _never_ talks like that.

“The best thing ever,” Kurt says with a sigh before they have to scurry out of the way of the company dancers who are always in a hurry because they’re important.

“I’m going to be a dancer someday,” Mike says with determination.  “We should do it together.”

Kurt thinks about Victoria, who still takes lessons with Miss Katherine, and the pinky promise they made once.  Kurt figured he was going to be alone in his dream, but being friends with Mike has been such a nice surprise.  He’s not Victoria, but he’s a _boy_.  A boy who understands.

“Definitely,” Kurt tells him; instead of a pinky swear they shake on it.

**Noah, New York NY: Second-Fourth Grade**

Noah`s room is so crowded with the baby's things in it, too, but he likes having the baby in there with him.  She's little and she smells good like baby powder and that yellow shampoo Noah thinks is for babies but his Ma still uses on his hair, too.  Sometimes when she fusses during the night, Noah will take her out of her crib and bring her and her super-fuzzy pink blanket into his bed.  He rubs her belly and sings into her ear.  She especially likes _Baa Baa Black Sheep_ , and she always laughs when he sings _Three Blind Mice_.  Noah does that when she fusses, but he also does it when his Ma and Dad fight. 

He does it so that she doesn't get scared, because he's seven now and is too old to be scared. He's just protecting his sister.

"It's okay, Sassy," he tells her.  His dad doesn't like nicknames and every time he hears Noah call the baby that, he cuffs the back of Noah's head.  _Her name is Sarah_ , he scolds.  Noah thinks he should know better now, either to watch his stupid mouth or, at least, duck out of the way, but he forgets more often than he remembers.  He spends lots of time with split lips and bruises on his cheekbones. 

Nobody notices or if they do they don't seem to care.  It's not unusual, in their building.  Last week, the cops came and took Mr. Viega away even though Noah knew from the yelling that it was Mrs. Viega with the kitchen knife that night. 

Noah knows what his life is going to be like.  He just wishes he could make it better for Sarah because she's only a tiny baby and she doesn't deserve to have people thinking she's nothing when she's barely even started yet.

Noah just sings to her until she falls back to sleep; then he presses his nose against her hair and sings to himself and breathes in her good sweet baby powder scent while Ma and Dad just keep fighting.

**

After Noah's dad finally leaves - _for good this time, you bastard_ his mom had yelled out the door after him - Noah has to start going to the community center after school because Ma is working all the hours she can get.  Sarah goes to the daycare there already, so when school gets out he walks the three blocks and sits outside of the baby room even though there's sports and snack and all kinds of things to do. 

He just wants to be with Sarah, because she's like the only thing he knows is real anymore.

The ladies who work at the daycare keep frowning at him, until finally the head baby lady tells him that Sarah is fine and he needs to go to the afterschool with all the other kids. 

Noah hides in the boys' room instead, because the big gym is too loud and crowded and the fifth and sixth grade kids hog all the best equipment.

At the beginning of his second week, he's walking along in the mess of dried and twisted brown leaves when he sees something red and yellow, something papery and stiff.  He stops, pretends like he's tying his shoes, and picks it up.  Stiff cardboard and five dry matches inside.  Noah tucks it into his pocket and pretends like it isn't there, but it calls to him the rest of his walk.  When he's tucked inside the last big stall in the boys' room he takes it out and lights a match, just one.  He watches the flame catch and flare, likes the way it smells like warmth.  He holds it until it burns too hot and close to his fingertips and then he drops it to sizzle out in the toilet. 

He feels strange, after, like all the things that he'd been told all his life are just gone and he is okay, he is safe and loved and full.

The feeling lasts for hours, until his Ma comes to pick him and Sarah up, looking like she's ready to fall over from the burden of having to take care of them and herself. 

The next day, he burns two matches and the feeling lasts until he goes to bed.

It takes a long time for just the matches to stop working, almost springtime by then and the last of the final support check from his dad is gone and his Ma has no idea where to even begin looking for him.  Noah doesn't think he should know things like that, but his Ma talks to him now like he's a grownup and that feels weird, but he never knows what to say to her to make her stop.

The week before April vacation he's crumpling paper towels into the sink and letting them burn, four matches in and still no silence in his head, when the door to the bathroom flies open and Mr. Garrity is staring at him.  He doesn't say a word, just waits while Noah turns the faucet on and wets down the charred paper and the last of the match.  He holds out his hand, and Noah places the half-empty matchbook in Mr. Garrity's palm.  He raises one eyebrow and Noah digs through his pockets for the two he has in his jeans and then two more at the bottom of his backpack.

His heart is pounding.  If he gets kicked out of the afterschool program, he's not sure what will happen.  It won’t be good, though, that's for sure.

He follows when Mr. Garrity motions him down the hall and into his office.  "Sports or music."  He sets Noah's matchbooks on his desk.

"Excuse me?"  Noah doesn't understand.

"Well," Mr. Garrity begins, "the unstructured program doesn't seem to meet your needs, so you can choose sports or music."

Noah thinks about the big kids who play basketball or soccer.  He doesn'lt like them.  The yelling is too loud, like his Dad, and if he has to play sports then he may as well keep his matches.

"Music, I guess."  He shrugs, figuring it'll be like music class in school, singing and playing xylophones or something.

"Excellent."  Mr. Garrity nods and leads Noah back into the hall, around a corner and into a little room with a piano and a whiteboard.  There's a woman sitting at a desk; she smiles when she sees Mr. Garrity.  "I see you found me another one."

"Noah Puckerman.  Noah, this is Ms. Bergen.  She teaches our violin class."

Noah's heart stops.  There's no way he can take the class because there`s hardly even the money for his reduced price lunch by the end of each month; how can he ask his mom to pay for a violin without explaining about the matches, without having her look at him one more time like he’s a disappointment?

He starts to shake his head.  “I can’t—” he begins, but Ms. Bergen just nods at Mr. Garrity and comes out from behind her desk to take Noah’s hand. 

“Here,” she says, opening a metal cabinet full of violin cases.  “Let’s try a couple out, see what size you need.”

She crouches down and begins pulling violins out.  “My mom,” Noah begins to tell her in a whisper, but she shakes her head.

“Let me worry about your mother,” Ms. Bergen says with a smile.  “You worry about the violin.”  She hands him one and helps him tuck it under his chin.  “How does this feel?”

Noah wrinkles his nose.  “A little weird.  It’s not like guitar.”

Ms. Bergen’s face brightens.  “You play guitar!” she exclaims.

“My dad was teaching me, but then he left.”  He doesn’t say – _can’t_ say – that he hasn’t been able to touch the guitar since his dad walked out; it’s too hard, and the one time he thought about it and ran his hand over the strings his Ma went crazy and yelled that there was no way Noah was going to be a deadbeat wannabe music star like his dad.

Ms. Bergen just nods like she understands.  “Do you know how to read music?”

“No, not really.”

“Okay.”  She puts the violin back into the case and sticks a piece of tape on the side.  She writes Noah’s name carefully on the tape with a sharpie.  Then she hands Noah a folder.  “Give this to your mom.  She can come in and talk with me about it if she wants.  The beginning class starts when we come back from vacation, from 3:30-4:15 every day, and then everyone goes to the tutoring center for snack and homework.  Does that sound good to you, Noah?”

“Will I have to go to the gym?”

Ms. Bergen laughs softly.  “No, honey.  You don’t have to go to the gym.”

“I guess it’s okay, then.”  Not like he has any choice, really.  Noah figures he can spend the rest of the school year taking the class and, maybe, if he keeps out of trouble then he won’t have to keep doing it once he’s in third grade.

**

His Ma frowns at him at first, when she sees the violin.  “What’s that gonna cost me?” she asks him.

“Nothing.”  He shoves the folder at her.  “The teacher said you can talk to her, if you want.”

His Ma opens the folder and runs her eyes over the papers.  “Free, huh?”

“And after the class there’s snack and homework.”

She stares at him.  “This gonna keep you out of trouble?”

“Yes, Ma’am.”  Noah nods at her with his serious face.  If he wants to keep his Ma from finding out about the matches, he has to sell this.

“Okay.”  She hands the folder back to him.  “It’s only till the end of the school year, right?”

“Yeah.”

“Good.”  Noah doesn’t want to know what she means by that; he figures it’s just more of her thing against music.  Maybe it reminds her of his dad, he has no clue. 

**

 

Noah actually likes his violin class.  It’s not as boring as he’d thought.  The other kids are all his age, from a couple of different schools.  He even likes going to the tutoring center after, because one of the high school girls who helps out works with him on his reading and his social studies.  The second week of class, he only misses one spelling word on his test.  He’s _never_ passed a spelling test before.  Mrs. Meyer smiles when she hands him back his paper, with a red apple sticker on it.

Ms. Bergen says that he’s doing well at violin, too.  He hopes so; he practices every night.  Sometimes it sounds screechy and makes Sarah cry, so Noah just works harder and harder until it sounds sweet and makes Sarah blow raspberries at him from her high chair.  On the last day of school, Noah’s beginner class and the intermediate one have a little recital for their parents and the other kids in the program.  Noah’s class plays “Twinkle Twinkle Little Star” and “Itsy Bitsy Spider,” and even though he’s concentrating really hard Noah can hear Sarah laughing from the back of the room.

After, when everyone is drinking punch and Noah’s got a handful of Chips Ahoy, Ms. Bergen stops him and his Ma.  “Mrs. Puckerman, is Noah planning to come to the music camp this summer?”

His Ma shakes her head.  Noah thinks it’s a stupid question; Ms. Bergen should _know_ that there’s no extra money for some fancy music camp, not for _anyone_ who uses the community center.

“Ms. Bergen, look.  Noah’s enjoyed this little class, but we’re not a music family.”

“Noah has natural aptitude and he’s shown a lot of initiative.”

“It’s just,” Noah mumbles from around a mouthful of cookie, “I don’t want Sarah to cry when I practice.”

Ms. Bergen giggles a little.  “Whatever the reason, Noah’s progressed very well and I’d hate for him to lose that.  The camp is here.  There’s breakfast at 8, music from 9 am till noon, and then the children have lunch and swimming and summer enrichment.”

Noah’s Ma nudges him with her knee.  “Noah, can you get me a cup of punch, please?”  Noah sighs, because his Ma hasn’t treated him like a little kid since his dad left, but he goes over to the snack table anyway and gets a cup for his Ma and another two cookies for himself; they _never_ get to have Chips Ahoy at home.

When he gets back to Ma and Ms. Bergen, Ms. Bergen is smiling. 

“You wanna go to camp, Noah?” Ma asks him.

“I guess,” he says.  He supposes it’s the truth because what else is he going to do for the summer?

“Great.”  Ms. Bergen claps her hands.  “I’ll see you Monday morning at 8.”

**

Camp isn’t just violin.  On the first day, Ms. Bergen sets out lots of different instruments and lets them pick something else to learn.  Noah feels her watching him while he studies each of them, the shiny flute and saxophone, the cello that’s bigger than he is and the inky blackness of the clarinet.  His hands are itching for the guitar, but he’s afraid.  He wants to grab it and get lost in the chords his dad taught him, but he’s so tired of his Ma complaining about all the ways that Noah’s no better than his dad.  He doesn’t want there to be _one more thing_ for her to hate him over.

He circles the guitar three more times until he catches Ms. Bergen staring at him.  He stops moving, wraps a hand around the neck of it, waits for Ms. Bergen to nod at him that it’s okay.  He sighs and picks it up.

It feels familiar.  It feels like home.  It feels like no matter how good he is at the violin, he could be even _better_ at the guitar.

He drops to the floor right there in the middle of all the other kids and instruments and crosses his legs under him.  He sets the guitar on his knee and starts playing.  He doesn’t know a lot, just three chords and the chorus to _Yellow Submarine_ , but for the first time since the fall his brain is quiet.

After that, Noah plays whenever he has a chance.  He leaves the guitar at the community center, because he doesn’t want his mom to know he’s learning, but he takes his violin home every night and practices for an hour between dinner and when his Ma puts Sarah to bed.  Then, he sits at the kitchen table and works on his homework.  It’s always easier to focus after he’s played.  He tells that to Ms. Bergen, too, and the next thing he knows his third grade teacher lets him go down to the music room instead of out to recess, so he gets to play _during_ school, too; he doesn’t get into as much trouble after lunch after that and his grades get a little better, too.

**

Halfway through fourth grade, Ms. Bergen crouches down next to Noah while he’s putting his violin away after class and drops a music book on the floor in front of him.

“I want you to learn piano,” she says softly. 

“ _Another_ instrument?” He rolls his eyes at her a little bit.  She just laughs at him. 

“You’re my most talented student, Noah.  Piano will only help you, going forward.”

“Going forward _where_?”  He’s not trying to be a smart-ass, but really?  Ms. Bergen’s been around long enough to know what reality looks like for him, for all the kids she teaches.  “This keeps my Ma off my back, that’s _it_.”

“What if that wasn’t it?  What if it could give you more than that?”

Noah doesn’t understand.  “Music’s just music,” he tells her.  He stalks over to the window, staring out through the security bars at the cracked and weedy cement of the basketball court.  Music _can’t_ be more than that for him; he can’t _want_ it to be more than that because he can’t hurt his Ma the same way his dad did.

“Music could be your way out.”  Ms. Bergen doesn’t move.  Noah can feel her watching him from across the room.  “There’s a school, the only one in the city, that’s _just_ for musically gifted children.  It’s a public school, but you’ll have to audition.  After 8 th grade you could go on to one of the arts high schools.”

“My Ma wouldn’t like it.”

“When have I _ever_ let your mother be a problem where your music is concerned?”

Noah knows he’s going to give away too much, but he kind of needs to make Ms. Bergen understand.  “You don’t have to live with her.  You don’t- you don’t have to hear the things that she _says_.”

“About you?” 

Noah knows he can trust Ms. Bergen; sometimes it feels like she’s his only friend, even if she _is_ a grownup and a teacher, but he also knows that it’s never good to say too much.  “About him.”

“Your dad.”

“Yeah.  She just doesn’t want me to be like him.  Music was his dream.  She doesn’t want it to be mine.”

“What do _you_ want your dream to be?”

Noah shrugs.  “I don’t have any dreams.”  It’s better that way, safer. 

Ms. Bergen’s hand is gentle on his shoulder.  “Would you let me dream for you, then?”

“I guess.”

“Good.  Then we’ll start Saturday afternoon.”

**

Noah feels like his head is going to burst open.  Ms. Bergen has been working with him every night after violin, and all afternoon on Saturdays.  He’s not the best piano player, but Ms. Bergen told him he was _passable_.  He knows some theory stuff now, too, because there’s supposed to be some kind of a test.  He’s trying not to freak out and it’s a little hard to breathe because of the stupid tie Ms. Bergen told him to wear.

He doesn’t want this as much as she does, but he also knows enough to know that it would be _really_ stupid to mess it up. 

Chances like this don’t come around a second time.

The door at the end of the hall opens and woman steps out.  “Noah Puckerman?”

Noah stands and grips his hand around the handle of his violin case.  He tucks his music under his arm.  “Here,” he says. 

He feels like maybe he’s going to be sick.

“Welcome,” the woman tells him with a smile.  She seems nice. 

He takes a deep breath and follows her through the door.

**Fall, New York**

Kurt checks his dance bag one last time and strides into the kitchenette.  He tosses a Clif Bar, an apple, a banana, and a yogurt smoothie into his bag, and unwraps a second Clif Bar.  He takes a bite, and then goes to pound on Mike’s door while he chews. 

“C’mon, Mike.  We’re gonna be late.”

“It’s only 8, what’s your hurry?”  Mike’s voice is loud over his music. 

“I want coffee, and I hate rushing on the first day.  If you’re not out in five, I’m leaving without you.”

“Perfectionist,” Mike teases.

“Says the talk of last year’s choreography workshop.”  Kurt leans against the wall and keeps eating.  “You’re just as driven as I am and we both know it.”

Mike’s door swings open and he hooks his arm through Kurt’s.  “Stars of second year, baby!”

“C’mon, Mr. Big Star, I’ll buy you a coffee.”

**

Kurt loves what class does to him, to his mind and his body.  For those hours every day he is nothing but what his teachers need him to be, a vessel or a canvas, clay or steel.  On good days, he leaves class with his mind blissfully clear and his body absolutely wrecked.  On bad days, he's frustrated and closed off, and those are the days when Mike grabs him and takes him for pizza for lunch blocks away from the school.  Those are the days when it takes Kurt hours to unspool and get back into his body.  He hates those days.

The first day back is one of those days.

Halfway through technique class, Kurt’s muscles are shaking and there’s a really annoying trail of sweat tickling down the back of his shirt.  His only consolation is that _everyone_ in class looks like they’re feeling about the same.  Kurt spent six weeks at the summer intensive at the San Francisco Ballet, but he didn’t take class with any regularity in the three weeks he was back in Lima before returning to the city.

He’s going to hurt something fierce tomorrow.

When they’re released, the girls go scurrying for their pointe shoes and Mike and the other contemporary dancers head off for their jazz class.  Kurt downs three ibuprofen while he drinks his smoothie, and he inhales his banana while he walks with the other second year guys down to the second floor for Men’s Class.  Gavin eyes Kurt’s SFB sweatshirt and nudges him with a careful elbow as they crowd into the studio. 

“Good summer, K?”

Kurt smiles at him.  “San Francisco is _always_ good,” he teases with a lilt in his voice.

“Meet anyone while you were there?”

“Just because _you’ve_ slept your way through the guys at Boston, Miami, and Tulsa doesn’t mean _everyone_ does that.  San Francisco isn’t just about the boys.”  Kurt knows he’s being prickly, but he’s a little annoyed; he keeps hoping that he’s going meet a decent guy, but the ones who aren’t dancers give him shit for _being_ a dancer and the other dancers tend to be too competitive.  Kurt gets enough of that in the studio every day; he doesn’t want to have to battle it in his romantic life too.

If he’s being completely honest, as much as he would love to have a boyfriend, he wants a spot in the San Francisco company even more.  If getting it means he has no social life for the next two years, so be it.

For as much strength and confidence as Kurt gained over the summer, none of it is visible in Men’s Class.  He feels slow and awkward, and the harder he tries to make his body cooperate the worse things get.

He half-dresses in the hall, track pants over his tights and his sweatshirt over his sweat-damp leotard, and stalks outside.  He waits for Mike with his back pressed against the sun-warmed brick of the building, listening to the kid who plays guitar outside of the coffee shop work his way through a Matchbox 20 song.

“Aren’t you supposed to be in school?” he asks once the song is done, keeping his eyes closed and his face turned up to the sun.

“Nobody cares if I’m in study hall,” the kid says, and launches into ABBA without a word.  _Friday night and the lights are low . . ._

“Oh, are you fucking kidding me?”  Kurt mumbles under his breath.  He turns and stares at the kid.   “If you’re going to be an asshole about male dancers, you _really_ picked the wrong place to play.”

The kid startles and drops his pick between the stings.  Kurt can hear it clunking hollow against the wood of the guitar’s body. “Son of a _bitch_ ,” he snarls, and glares at Kurt.  “If you think you’re so special, maybe you shouldn’t waste your time taking up public space.”

“I never said I was –” he begins, but then the lobby door opens and Mike barrels out with his friend Heidi and Kurt’s pas de deux partner, Raina, hot on his heels. 

“C’mon, K, the girls want bagels.  Did I tell you about the girl who started working there this summer?  Her name is Tina and she’s _so_ cute.” 

Kurt lets himself get caught up in Mike’s energy.  Maybe getting out for the hour before variations will help get him out of his head. 

He wants to look back at the boy, but he doesn’t.

**

Puck _likes_ playing outside the coffee house.  In the mornings, he gets the commuters on their way to work before he has to head to school.  In the afternoons, he gets the moms who drop their little darlings off for ballet lessons.  They leave good tips, always: when the weather’s good, Puck plays in a tank top and tight jeans to show off his body; in the winter, he’s pretty sure they leave him pity tips, but he isn’t going to complain.  Money is money, and since Sarah’s grown out of two pairs of sneakers since June they kind of need any extra they can get.

It’s pretty stupid, Puck knows, coming back down to the Village for lunch and the duration of study hall, but he managed some decent money mid-day in the summer, and there’s no reason to stop now that school is back in session.

He’s got his groove on, a little Rob Thomas for the hipsters, when a guy shuffles out of the ballet school and leans against the building like he needs to hold it up.

He closes his eyes and sighs, and Puck re-evaluates.  The kid needs the building to hold _him_ up. 

He’s not gonna say anything; he doesn’t like people to bother him when he’s in a shitty mood and he isn’t about to bother this kid either, except he goes and makes some crack about Puck not being in school, which pisses Puck off.

School still isn’t his favorite place to be, but he gets to play every day and even if his academic grades are borderline he’s still a star in his music classes.  He’s appreciated there, _and_ here, and he doesn’t need some stuck up dancer-boy criticizing him for trying to help out his Ma.

He doesn’t need it, even if the kid _is_ kind of cute.

He’s feeling a little mean, so he starts up _Dancing Queen_ , and holy _hell_ does that piss the kid off.  Puck digs at the kid, yeah, because he made himself an easy target.  He starts to say something to Puck; in protest or defense Puck can’t be sure because the kid’s friends come outside and drag him away. 

Puck watches them go, and tries to convince himself that he’s not staring.

Oh, who the hell is he kidding?  He’s _totally_ staring.

**

Puck has no idea if he’s going to see the kid again, when he takes up his usual spot after school. 

He plays Raffi and Bill Harley for the hour when the preschool and kindergarten-aged kids come and go, scampering to keep up with their parents, and then Bieber and One Direction for the school-aged kids.  He just finishes playing some Ed Sheeran for the middle-schoolers and is getting ready to pack up and head over to the community center to get Sarah and go home so they can start dinner for his Ma, when the door chuffs open and the boy steps out.  He’s alone, in the same track pants and sweatshirt from before, with a set of ear buds snaking from the sweatshirt’s pocket up to his ears.  He sets off past Puck, his gaze set somewhere other than the street around him.

He looks aloof, almost cold.

Puck kind of wants to follow him, see where he goes and how he acts when he’s alone and thinks nobody sees him, but he _has_ to get Sarah.

There will be plenty of other days.

He’s not _late_ , really.  He finds Sarah outside the music room reading, backpack by her side and her flute case at her feet.  She frowns at him.

“You were supposed to be here when my lesson was _over_ ,” she scolds, reaching up to brush a stray curl out of her face.  “Not halfway through _Ellie Anderson’s_ lesson.”

“Sorry, Sassy,” he tries to soothe her.  He reaches into his pocket and pulls out the wad of bills he earned.  “The mommies were feeling generous today.”

Sarah pushes to her feet and shoulders her backpack.  Puck reaches for her flute case, grabs it in the same hand as his guitar.  “C’mon, kiddo, if we hurry we can get to the bakery before they close.  I’ll buy us cupcakes for dessert.”

“Cupcakes are overrated,” she says and she follows him quickly anyway.  “But I wouldn’t say no to a brownie or an apple turnover.”

Puck taps a finger on the side of her flute.  “Play with me for half an hour after dinner and I’ll buy you both.”

“As long as we don’t have to play that Bach again, you’ve got a deal.”

**

Puck cooks pasta and makes a salad while Sarah works on her math at the kitchen table. 

“Do you regret not auditioning for SMS?” he asks as he sets three places and nods at her to take her book back to their bedroom.

“You were never _here_ , once you went there, between the subway and all the extra lessons and everything.  I want music to be a _part_ of my life, not my _entire_ life.”

“It wasn’t so bad.”  Puck shrugs, because it _wasn’t_.  All the music kept his brain quiet, at least, and SMS gave him the background he needed to get into McKinney.  He kind of hated having to go over to Brooklyn every day, but he knew that LaGuardia was too hardcore, and the high school program at SMS was still a couple of years away from opening. 

He’s made his choices.  He just wishes he could get Sarah somewhere other than his old elementary school.  “You should audition for the middle school at McKinney.  I promise I wouldn’t embarrass you next year.”

“I told Ms. Bergen, I don’t want that.  I want to stay here with my friends.”  She frowns at him.  “You’re going to be gone in another two years, and then I’m _really_ going to need my friends.”

Puck doesn’t know what to say to that.  It’s true, of course.  He’s been the one to raise Sarah, really, even in the years he was going uptown for school.  He finally sighs and turns away to drain the pasta before it’s overcooked and soggy. 

“Hey.”  Sarah slides up beside him at the sink.  “What’s got you in a mood?”

“Nothing.”  Puck shuts off all the weird conflicting thoughts about the boy from the ballet school, because he’s got shit to do tonight and being distracted by some holier than thou dancer isn’t part of his plan.

“Mmmm.”  Sarah just hums.  “Sure.  The last time you got like this was . . .”

“Don’t.”  Puck clenches his jaw and fights the rage that’s creeping into his chest.  The last time he felt like this was when fucking Quinn Fabray used him to get back at her asshole East Side boyfriend at that shitty party a year ago, when he’d _believed_ her lie that she was on the fucking pill, when he’d knocked her up in Darcy Fisher’s parents’ room.  When he’d agreed, because he _knew_ what it was like to raise a baby, that it was best to give the baby up for adoption.

Quinn fucking Fabray was a bitch and she wasn’t half the pianist she thought she was.

Sarah puts her hand over his where it’s shaking on the strainer full of pasta.  “Boy or girl?”

Puck blinks at her, because _shit_ , he’s never told _anyone_ about the boys, the ones he’s kissed or groped, fast and awkward at countless parties all over the city.  Sometimes he thinks that the only thing SMS was _really_ good for was hooking him up with the kids who had the means to party hard.  “How do you _do_ that?” he asks her.

“Duh.”  She rolls her eyes.  “We’ve shared a room since I was a baby.  I _know_ you, dumbass, and it doesn’t matter.  Boy or girl?”

Puck tips the pasta back into the pot and turns the heat off under the sauce.  “Boy.”

“Is he cute?”

“He’s a stuck up ass.”

“But is he _cute_?” Sarah sing-songs, teasing. 

He nudges her with his hip.  “Get the salad dressing out of the fridge?  If Ma isn’t home in five minutes we’ll eat without her.”

“You’re not getting away with avoiding me.  I _know_ how to make you talk.”  Sarah snakes her hands under his shirt and pokes him just under his ribs where he’s most ticklish.  He barks out a laugh, because her aim is always so perfect and her hands are a little cold from the bottles of dressing.

“Fine, fine!” Puck gasps, reaching up and turning away from her.  “Fine.  He’s _cute_ , okay?  But it doesn’t matter because he acts like he’s better than everyone else.  I _hate_ people like that.” 

“Yeah, well.  The heart wants what the heart wants.  Or something like that.”

“You’re _ten_ , Sassy.  What the hell do you know about my heart?”

“More than _you_ , apparently,” and her hands are grabbing again, trying to torture him into some kind of laughter-induced submission.

Ten minutes later, they’re collapsed in a giggling heap on the worn living room carpet, both of them breathing heavily with their hair and clothes a mess, dinner forgotten and going cold on the counter, when their Ma rushes into the apartment late for dinner again.

After dinner, after half an hour of playing music together – Beethoven, not Bach, per Sarah’s request – Puck ushers Sarah into their shared room.  They finish their homework sitting across from each other on the threadbare area rug, the bakery box of two cupcakes, a brownie, and an apple turnover between them.  Puck works slowly through his English and History, and then speeds through pre-calc.  Sarah’s still got her spelling book out when he finishes stuffing his books and papers back into his backpack.  “Hey,” he says to her, tapping the eraser of his pencil against her book to get her attention.

“What?” she glares at him.  “I was concentrating.”

He rolls his eyes at her.  “You really don’t care, that I like dudes?”

Sarah shrugs.  “Why would I?  We’ve got bigger problems than who you like to fuck.”

“Sassy!”

She pokes him through the fabric of his jeans with the tip of her pencil.  “Don’t you _dare_ get mad at me for my trashy mouth, I learned it from _you_.”

“Jeez, just don’t let Ma hear you.  Or your teachers.  Shit.”

“I don’t.”  She pauses, scribbles something into one of the blank places in her workbook, and then looks back up at him.  “I don’t care.  But this guy?  If you think you messed up you should apologize.”  She winks at him.  “Especially if you want to get into his pants.”

“I don’t want to get into his pants.  He’s cute, is all.”  He’s a little too defensive and he knows it.

“Uh huh.  Whatever.  Now leave me alone so I can finish this stupid spelling.”

**

Kurt’s ready to drop by the time he drags himself home, well after six.  The little kids in the class he’s assisting with as part of the trainee program’s teaching component were all over-excited for their first day of dance class, and they were a little loud.  Okay, a _lot_ loud. 

They gave Kurt a new appreciation for Miss Katherine’s patience in teaching five year olds.

Mike is sitting on the futon when he lets himself into their suite, his laptop on his knees and a textbook open next to him.  Kurt waves weakly and sinks onto the lumpy mattress next to him.  He taps Mike’s book with his index finger.  “I’m so glad my dad let me take those summer classes.” 

Mike snatches his book away and scowls at Kurt.  “You suck.  It’s not fair that you’re done with school already.”

“You’ve only got one more year left.  It’s not _that_ bad.  It could be worse, we could have to go to actual school and sit in a real classroom instead of getting to go to class in our pajamas whenever we want.”  Kurt turns to face Mike, tucking his knees under him with a groan.  “ _God,_ I hurt _._ ”

Mike pats Kurt’s knee in mock sympathy.  “I’m so sorry,” he teases.  “I could make you do my calculus and then you’d _really_ be hurting.”

Kurt snorts.  “I think your teachers would wonder why you were suddenly failing math.  But if you _really_ want me to do it, then _you_ can teach baby ballet next week.”

“Munchkins got you down, huh?”

Kurt laughs bitterly.  “They’re very . . . shrill.”

Mike crooks one side of his lip up into a smile.  “They are that.”

Kurt watches Mike type for a moment.  “Hey,” he says softly.

“Yeah?”

“That kid who plays guitar outside of the coffee shop, do you know anything about him?”

Mike shakes his head.  “Just that he was there all summer, all day long.  He’s pretty good.”

“He’s an ass.”

“What did he do to piss you off?”

“He played _Dancing Queen_!”  Kurt is indignant because he really thought he’d left those kinds of closed minds behind when he left Ohio.

Mike bites his lip and Kurt _knows_ , he just _knows_ , that Mike’s trying not to laugh.

Kurt stands quickly and grabs his bag.  “It’s not _funny!_ ” he insists and stalks off to his room.  He slams the door behind him, and only after it’s closed does he hear Mike’s voice trailing after him.

“I’m sorry, but it’s a _little_ bit funny.”

“I hate you,” Kurt yells back, but he doesn’t really mean it.  He knows Mike knows it, too. 

They’ll be fine in the morning, they always are.

Kurt empties his bag of all his sweaty practice clothes, tossing them into his laundry basket, and pulls out clean clothes for the next day.  He showered before he left the studio, so he changes into sleep pants and a t-shirt and settles onto his bed with his phone.

His dad always has the right perspective on things.

“Hey, Kiddo!” his dad answers on the second ring.  Kurt can hear the noise of a baseball game in the background.  “First day go okay?”

“Not really.”  Kurt leans back against his mountain of pillows.  “It was like my body forgot everything in three weeks.  It wasn’t pretty.”

“Uh huh.  What else?”

“What do you mean?”

“I know you, Kurt.  You wouldn’t be calling if the problem was your dancing.”

“I had a . . . a thing . . . today.”

“What kind of a thing?”  Kurt can hear his dad getting exasperated.

“There’s this guy.”

“Oh, jeez, Kurt.  I don’t know if I’m ready to hear about you havin’ a boyfriend.”

“Dad!   No!  It’s not – he’s not – I mean, I don’t even know his name.  He’s not _anything_.”

“But you want him to be.”  His dad sighs.

“No!  No!  He’s this jerk, he plays guitar for money near the school, and he was so _awful_ today.”

“What did he do?”

Kurt takes a deep breath.  Mike’s laughter still stings a little bit and he knows he risks getting the same response from his dad.  “Promise me you won’t laugh.  Mike laughed.  I’m not talking to him right now.”

“Aw, you guys’ll be fine in the morning.  Tell me what the guitar player did.”

“He played _Dancing Queen_ at me.”

“Uh huh.  And what did _you_ do?”  _Damn._   Kurt’s dad knows him entirely too well.

“What makes you think _I_ started it?”  Kurt is quick to defend himself against his father’s judgement.

His dad’s rich laugh echoes in Kurt’s ear.  “Jeez, kiddo.  If I had a dollar for every time you slung your own  I’d be on a beach in Tahiti or someplace.”

“Fine,” Kurt huffs into the phone.  “It was a weird time of day; I asked him if he was supposed to be in school.  After he played _that song_ I told him that if he had a problem with guys dancing then he shouldn’t play next to the studio.”

“That’s it?”

“No.”  Kurt hears his voice edge up into mild whining, but he can’t stop it.  “Then _he_ told _me_ that if I thought I was so special and better than everyone else, maybe I shouldn’t take up public space.  It wasn’t – I didn’t mean to make him think that.  I’m _not_ like that.”

Kurt waits, but his father is silent on the other end of the phone.  “Dad?” he asks cautiously.  “I’m not like that.  Am I?”

“No.  I know you’re not like that,” his dad begins.  Kurt closes his eyes and listens.  “But the way you are, sometimes?  When you’re thinking about your dancing, or when you’re worried or upset or angry or _anything_ , you can _seem_ that way.  You just go quiet, like after your mom, and it’s hard to reach you.  So I can see why that boy would think that.  He doesn’t know you; he only sees what you show him.”

Kurt wishes he could relax and let the boy’s comments just roll off him.  But, he’s spent his whole life being looked down at and teased and degraded because he’s gay, because he’s a dancer, because his mom died. 

He’s so damn sick of being treated as less than.

“Why do I always have to be the bigger person when people have a problem with who I am?  Why do I always have to be the one to look the other way or not let it get to me or just get up and keep going?”

His dad sighs heavily.  “I’m sorry, Kurt.  I thought it would be better for you once you got to the city.

“Me, too, Dad.  Me, too.”  There’s nothing his dad can say to make things easier and they both know it, so Kurt spends a little time listening to the latest from the garage before they hang up.

Kurt’s stomach growls, so he pads out to the kitchen to scrounge something to eat.  Mike is still on the futon, still working away.

“I’m sorry,” Kurt tells him as he walks by.  “I had a shitty day, and I shouldn’t have taken it out on you.”

Mike just shrugs, affable as always.  “Don’t worry; you’re still my best friend.  You can’t get rid of me that easily and, after seven years, I think I know how to handle a patented Kurt Hummel tantrum.”

Kurt grins and flips Mike off before he opens the fridge.  There’s a carton of Japanese noodles left over from the previous night’s take-out, which Kurt eats cold, leaning against the counter.  “So you think I overreacted, about the guitar guy?”

Mike keeps working, never looking up from his book even as he talks to Kurt.  “I dunno.  I mean, I know you take a ton more shit than I do.  Whether that’s because you do ballet or because you’re gay, I don’t know.”

“My dad said I come across like I’m better than people, sometimes.”

“You’re driven,” Mike says, and flicks his gaze up to meet Kurt’s for a moment.  “I think maybe that can put people off when they don’t know you.  You shouldn’t have to apologize for that, though.”

“I do feel kind of bad.  It wasn’t really _his_ fault that I’d had a crappy class.”

“So apologize, if you want to.  He’s around enough.  But, Kurt?”

“Yeah?”

“Why are you so worked up about this?  He’s just some random guy on the street.”

Kurt doesn’t know what to say.  The kid has a decent voice, plays a pretty good guitar.  Kurt had no reason to feel such rage at him that afternoon, but he also doesn’t know why he feels like he needs to fix his mistake.  “No idea,” Kurt admits.  “I’m not going to stress about it, though.  Want to watch a movie when you’re done with . . .” He squints at Mike’s book.  “Whatever that is with all the numbers.”

“AP Calculus,” Mike says with a sigh.  “My father _still_ holds out hope that I’ll change my mind and go to medical school.”  He sets his pencil between the pages of the book and closes it before setting his entire pile of work onto the floor.  “Action or rom com?”

Kurt isn’t sure he wants to deal with even a fictional romance tonight.  “Action.  The more stuff that blows up, the better.”

**

It’s Saturday before Kurt sees the kid again.  It’s raining lightly when he walks by the coffee shop on his way to class.  His mind is on the _Nutcracker_ auditions happening later in the afternoon.  He almost doesn’t notice the kid, huddled under the awning with his guitar slung across his back; there’s a curly-haired girl, maybe 9 or 10 years old, standing next to him, and he’s pushing some crumpled bills into her hand.  He pauses on purpose just past them to fiddle with his bag, and he hears the guy scolding her.

“I told you to stay inside, Sas.  Get a hot chocolate and finish your reading.  I’ll help you with your math later.  Ma will _kill_ me if you get sick again.”

“But I brought my flute,” she replies.  “I can help.”

“Not in the rain.  Another day, when the weather’s better.  Now _go_.” 

Kurt catches his eye as he turns around.  “Sister?” he asks.

The boy rolls his eyes.  “She’s being a pain in my ass today ‘cause she’s been sick all week.”

“That sucks.”  Kurt ducks under the awning and brushes rain out of his hair.  “Look,” he begins.  “I’m really sorry about the other day.  I had a shit morning in class, and I took it out on you.  You didn’t do anything.”

The boy shrugs.  “Yeah, I kinda did.  I was an asshole, and you didn’t deserve that.”

Kurt nods.  “Okay.  Truce, then?”

The boy holds his gaze for almost a moment too long; Kurt is about to start squirming when the boy tips his chin up in a little nod of his own.  “I’m Puck.”

“Kurt.”  Kurt pokes at the sidewalk with his sneaker.  “Sorry to meet you and run, but I’ve got class.  Stay warm.”

“Will do,” Puck says and swings his guitar around as he begins picking out a tune.

Kurt’s almost through the door into the building when he figures it out.  He turns to face Puck and gives him a thumb’s up.  “Elton John.  Nice one.”

“I’ll stay away from ABBA.”

“Thanks.”

Puck keeps on playing _Tiny Dancer_ , even after Kurt is inside.  He listens hard on his way up the stairs; he can almost hear the music following him, and when he takes his place at the barre he’s still smiling.

The halls are a madhouse when the trainees are released after technique and partnering; the children’s division kids are already there for auditions, and it seems to Kurt like every inch of free space is taken up by kids and their parents.  Kurt hoists his bag higher on his shoulder and tucks one arm around its bulk; he really doesn’t want to knock anyone out with it.

He stalks carefully through the crowd and sighs with relief when the locker room door closes behind him against the echoes of voices.  He sets his bag on the bench with a thud and twirls the combination on his locker.  “Anyone else want to eat before auditions?” he asks as he strips his tights off.

“Maybe,” Nate says, his voice muffled from inside his t-shirt.  “As long as Mike doesn’t make us go to the bagel place _again._ ”

“Shut up,” Mike growls.

“Just ask for her number already, man,” Quinn teases from around the corner.

“Anyone for falafel?” Kurt offers and there’s a chorus of _yesses_ and _mmmhmms_.

“Girls too?” Nate drops to the bench and shoves his feet into his sneakers.  “Or is this a guys’ lunch?”

“Guys’ lunch,” Kurt and Mike say in unison, and then laugh. 

“I don’t think I can spend another five _minutes_ listening to speculation about who’s going to get Sugarplum this year,” Kurt says, buttoning his jeans. 

“Even if you’re a shoe-in for the cavalier?”  Gabe leans against the end of the bank of lockers and stares at Kurt.  “Don’t deny it, you _know_ it’s true.”

Kurt shakes his head and moves toward the door, the rest of the guys following after him.  “Luke Preston’s going to get it.  I’m only a second-year.”

“You’re better than Luke Preston, and a lot nicer, too,” Mike says as they pick their way through the craziness in the hall.  Once they’re all safely into the stairwell, Mike slings an arm around Kurt’s shoulder.  “Luke Preston is an _ass_.  Heidi had that pas de deux with him in the spring workshop last year, remember?  He was so full of himself.”

“Well, I’ve been told more than once this week that I can be an ass, too, so don’t be too hard on Luke.”  Kurt twists away from Mike’s arm as they cross the lobby and he tugs the hood of his sweatshirt up against the gentle rain before opening the door onto the street. 

Puck is still there, huddled under the awning playing.  Kurt can see a mess of crumpled bills in his guitar case.  He nods silently as he walks and, even though he’s not watching, he can hear Puck’s fingers trip on the strings.

“You made your peace, then?” Mike asks as they near the corner, the music fading under the hiss and squeak of taxis and buses on rain-slicked streets.

“I think so.”

“Good.”

Kurt chances one last look back as they round the corner, and when he sees Puck watching him, he tries to duck his head fast before Puck can catch his eye, but he’s too late.  Puck winks and smiles at him, and Kurt isn’t sure what to make of the blush burning his cheeks.

**

“He’s _hot_ ,” Sarah tells Puck when they leave the coffee shop later, juggling their instrument cases with cardboard cups of hot chocolate Mrs. Costa hadn’t charged them for.  Again.  “And I saw him watching you, every time he walked by.  He _likes you_ ,” she teases.

“Shut up,” Puck growls, but he feels a smile tugging at the corners of his mouth.  “He doesn’t.”

“He _totally_ does.  You should ask him out.”

“No.”  Puck shakes his head and takes a careful sip from his cup.  “Never gonna happen.”

“What’s never gonna happen?” a voice calls from behind them.  Puck turns to see Tina Cohen-Chang darting toward them.  She lives on their block, and she’d been in school with Puck before he transferred to SMS.  They both hang on the fringes of the same crowd, now, because most of the kids he went to SMS with are in private school now, and so is Tina.  Puck sees her most mornings running to the subway in Doc Martens and an obscenely short uptown private school uniform skirt, her magenta-streaked hair flying behind her.  Today, though, her hair is in a ponytail and she has on a hat from the bagel shop a few blocks away.

“Puck has a crush on a dancer,” Sarah says, skipping ahead of them and swinging her flute case. 

“Is he in the company?” Tina asks, hooking her arm through Puck’s.  “I don’t know too many of the company people, but the trainees come into the bagel shop a _lot_.  There’s one guy I think might have a crush on me, but it’s like he’s afraid of me or something.”

“Must be the pink streaks,” Puck says, tugging on her ponytail.  “He must not know that underneath your punk exterior you’re really just a private school softie.”

“Shut up, Mr. Fancy Music School.  And it could be worse.  Hewitt was the compromise.”

“Between what?  And I don’t go to a fancy music school anymore.”

“My parents wanted Spence, and I wanted Steiner.  So, Hewitt.”  She elbows him and scowls.  “Why are you down on McKinney?  So what if it’s public, it’s a good program.” 

Puck wrinkles his nose.  Quinn fucking Fabray goes to Spence.  “McKinney’s not LaGuardia.”  It’s the refrain he’d heard over and over again during his 8th grade winter, from classmates and teachers alike wondering why he wasn’t trying for a spot there or even going for a scholarship to a private school like Tina did.

“I think you might be the only who cares about that, Noah.”  Tina brushes at the bill of her cap where a line of rain drops has collected, which sends the water flying.  “I mean, even your mom finally got over you playing the guitar.”

Puck stiffens at the use of his given name.  He’d dropped it when he started high school because he was so _tired_ of being Noah.  He’d figured then that starting a new school with a new name would be a new start.  It had worked pretty well until he’d shown up at his first party with his former SMS classmates back in freshman year in his thrift store leather jacket and the mohawk he’d shaved himself using his dad’s old electric shaver.  That was the first night Quinn had cornered him, in the kitchen between the fridge and the door, and tried to snake her hand down his pants.  He’d pulled away and finally ended up grinding more than a little dirty against Ethan Jenkins in the living room – slash – makeshift dance club.

He built a reputation as an easy hook-up, guys _or_ girls, and he felt extremely lucky that it hadn’t followed him back home to lower Manhattan. 

"I wouldn't care if everyone didn't act so disappointed in my choices.  I just want to play music, why does it matter _where_ I go to school?"

Tina rolls her eyes.  "Preaching to the choir," she says and leans closer into him.  She isn’t wearing a jacket, just a long-sleeved thermal under her work t-shirt, and she shivers against Puck when he wraps his arm around her.  "My mother thinks that private school is the best way for me to get a scholarship to a good college."

"Fuck college," Puck sighs. 

"Indeed."  They stop at the corner and Tina looks back and forth between Puck and her building on the corner.

Puck runs through the contents of the pantry in his head.  He'd planned on making burgers with the ground beef he'd pulled out of the freezer, but chili will go further.  "I'm making chili for dinner and I think we have the makings for chocolate chip cookies, if you wanna come over?"

"That would be nice.  I don't- um.  I don't have a lot of friends in the neighborhood anymore."

"Yeah.  Me, either.  Maybe you"ll get lucky and I'll tell you about the guy."

Tina giggles.  "Noah Puckerman, the queen of girl talk.  Who'd have thought it?"

"Shut up," Puck mutters, but he smiles a little as he holds the door to his building for Tina; he performs a theatrical bow for her as she passes him.  "I'm a fucking gentleman, thank you very much."

Sarah snorts from the stairwell above them and by the time Puck gets the apartment door open he is laughing too.

It’s been a pretty good day.

**

Kurt can’t sleep Sunday night; he’s unreasonably nervous about the Nutcracker cast list that’s supposed to be posted before technique class.  If pressed he wouldn’t be able to express whether he was more worried about actually getting the Cavalier or not getting it.  It’s a reach for a second year, really, and all that Kurt truly cares about is snagging a better part than the party parent he’d played the previous year.

When he rolls over and checks his alarm clock for the fifth time in the hour between 5 and 6 am, he finally just gives in and gets up.  He packs his bag quickly and slips silently from the apartment; he leaves a note on the counter for Mike, who’s still sleeping.  He walks through the barely-lit neighborhood and watches it wake up, joggers and dog-walkers and early morning businessmen on the move.  He is just rounding the corner closest to the school when a voice behind him calls "you're up early."

"Puck," he says with a faint smile.  "Good morning."

"Don't take this wrong, dude, but you look like shit."

Kurt quirks his lip up into a smile.  "No offense taken.  It wasn't a good night for sleeping.  The Nutcracker cast list goes up today."

He pauses and lets Puck fall into step beside him.  "All my friends think I'm a shoo-in for one of the big solos.  It would really help going forward, but it's unlikely and I know I'm going to be disappointed anyway.  Sometimes I think I'm crazy for wanting this so badly."

"What, being a dancer?"

"Yeah.  Moving away from home and all the hours in class and rehearsal.  I love it, but it's so unpredictable."

"Life is unpredictable.  You wouldn't have come here if it wasn't worth it."

"Is it like that with your music?"  He gestures at Puck's guitar and . . . "Oh.  You play violin too?"

Puck looks down at both of the cases in his hand, like he hasn’t even realized he’s carrying two.  "Yeah.  And piano.  My first music teacher wanted me to be well rounded, said it would help me get out of this neighborhood."

"Are you going to?  Get out of the neighborhood?"

Puck shrugs.  "No idea.  It'complicated."

He reaches to open the door to the coffee shop and motions for Kurt to go inside.  It's empty and quiet so early in the morning, and the elderly woman who works the counter wwaves at them. 

"Good morning, Mrs. Costa," Puck called to her.

"Noah!  You come over here and get a fresh muffin.  Now tell me, is Sarah feeling better?"

Kurt follows Puck over to the counter.  "Noah?" he asks, voice low.

"Don't ask," Puck says with a shake of his head.  "Mrs. Costa lives in our building.  She used to babysit me when I was little, before my sister was born."  He slides halfway around the counter and hugs Mrs. Costa, and Kurt watches her hands flutter a little before resting just under Puck's shoulders.  When she pulls away, her hands leave light smudges of flour on the back of Puck's Henley.

“Sarah’s much better,” Puck tells her.  “Thanks again for keeping an eye on her on Saturday.”

Kurt watches Mrs. Costa bustle around behind the counter, fixing two coffees and sliding muffins onto a large plate.  “Apple Oat and Blueberry for you, Noah.  And your friend looks like Cranberry Orange and Pumpkin Chocolate Chip.  Two large coffees for two boys who are up way too early on a school day.”

“It’s best when I can play for a couple of hours before school,” Puck tells her like he’s reminding her while she ushers them to a small round table near the windows. 

“I know.  You’re such a help to your mother.  Tell her that the next time Sarah’s sick, I can keep her.  I have my grandbabies every afternoon; having one more is no trouble, especially not a sweet girl like your Sarah.”

Kurt watches Puck break his blueberry muffin into pieces on his plate.  “Thanks, Mrs. Costa.  I’ll tell her.”

The look on his face, though, tells Kurt that he is going to do anything _but_ tell his mother about Mrs. Costa’s offer.  Kurt quirks a questioning eyebrow at Puck after Mrs. Costa is back behind the counter, and Puck just shakes his head.  “My Ma feels like asking for help is taking advantage.”  He takes a sip of his coffee and sets the cup down hard enough that a little liquid splashes over the side.  “But it’s not taking advantage to ask me to stay home in the afternoon instead of playing.  If I had a real job, she wouldn’t do that.  And it’s not like she doesn’t need the money I earn.” 

“I’m sorry,” Kurt says before he really thinks about it, and when he looks up from his cup Puck’s eyes are positively blazing with fury. 

“I don’t need your fucking _pity_ , Kurt.”

“It’s not like that.”  He sighs in frustration, feeling like all he does is make mistakes when it comes to Puck.  “I just know what it’s like, okay?”

“Uh huh.”  Puck pops another piece of muffin into his mouth.  “Did your dad disappear when you were seven?  Is your Ma living paycheck to paycheck and some weeks you’re the only reason there’s food to eat?”

Kurt chews thoughtfully on his own muffin.  He doesn’t usually share his life story with people, because he _knows_ what pity feels like, and judgment, and that odd mix of disapproval and admiration that he gets for being _so strong, your mother would be so proud_.  But he is pretty sure that if he doesn’t start talking soon, he’s going to lose whatever ground he’s gained with Puck.

He wonders, briefly, why it even matters to him.

He has more muffin, spicy and sweet, and the chocolate chips are a little crunchy around their cooked edges.  It’s delicious and it’s probably the best muffin he’s had since he came to New York.  He can tell already that Mrs. Costa’s muffins are going to become his new favorite comfort food; they remind him a little too much of his step-mother’s culinary creations.

“My mother died in a car accident when I was seven,” he says as if reciting a list of facts.  Which, okay, he _is_ because he still doesn’t know how to _talk_ about it, about what he lost while he was busy dancing and the different ways that dancing has saved him.  “My dad raised me alone.  If I didn’t have a scholarship, I wouldn’t even be here.  So I _get it_ , okay?”  _And please don’t ask me anything else, because I just can’t tell you._

“Okay.”  Puck nods and pushes his plate to the middle of the table.  “You wanna try a bite?  The Apple Oat is pretty amazing.”

“No, thank you.  I’ll get one another day, now that I know the best muffins in the city live here.”

They make small-talk around their breakfasts until the foot traffic on the street picks up and Puck stands with a hand looped through the handles of both his cases.  “Prime time for kick-ass tips,” he says as he starts to the door.  “I have an hour and a half before school.”

Kurt nods and stands against the stone façade of the Joffrey building listening to Puck play until the doors open at 7.  He waves to Puck, who nods and mouths _good luck_ around the introduction to _Thunder Road_. 

The coffee makes Kurt jittery and the muffin sits like a lump in his stomach.  He changes and moves soft and silent through the empty halls to the studio where technique class is held.  After a year this room feels like just as much of a home as Toledo and Miss Katherine’s studio ever did. 

This isn’t the first time Kurt has worked off sleeplessness at the barre, early morning sunlight striping on the floor and rosin dust tiny sparkles in the half-dark.  He works slowly, carefully, bending and stretching until his nerves are settled and he feels like he’s finally _in_ his body as opposed to letting his body control him.  When it clicks, when that feeling fills him and holds him, he feels invincible. 

He moves to the center and works through one of the combinations they’ve been learning in contemporary dance.  It’s not his favorite class, but he wants to succeed in _all_ of his classes; the tricky footwork and turned-in body positions that feel awkward to Kurt’s ballet-accustomed body have made the combination an exercise in frustration.

He’s disturbed by a knock on the studio window and he turns to see Kevin, who teaches Men’s Class, beckoning him into the hall. 

“Kevin.” Kurt nods in greeting and eyes the pages of paper in Kevin’s hands.  “Is that . . . ?”

“Cast list.”

“And?”

Kevin grins and claps him on his shoulder.  “Why don’t you come with me and see.”

Kurt follows Kevin to the notice board and waits while he tacks the papers to the cork.  He skims fast, eyes flicking past party parents and soldiers and mice.  He reads slower when he hits Act II, Arabian and Chinese and Russian, to Waltz of the Flowers.  After the list of girls cast as flowers, he sees Heidi’s name under Dewdrop Fairy and his own under Dewdrop Cavalier.

“You’ll be understudying Luke as Sugarplum’s cavalier.  We’re all very pleased with your progress, Kurt.  San Francisco agreed with you, didn’t it?”

“This was my third summer there,” he says, his eyes still on his name, his _pas de deux_ , right there in black print.  “It’s where I want to go, after I graduate.”

“I didn’t know that.  Well.  Keep up the good work and I’m sure you’ll get there.”

“Thank you,” Kurt says and breathes into his surprise and happiness.

**

Saturday night, Kurt’s exhausted from classes and rehearsal.  He’s in sweatpants and a t-shirt, folding his mountain of clean, still warm from the dryer laundry and half-listening to an episode of _Parenthood_ on Netflix when Mike steps into his room.

“We’re going out tonight,” he says without preamble.  “I heard Tina at the bagel shop talking about an under-18 dance club.  She’s going to be there tonight and I need you to be my wingman.”

Kurt turns, takes in Mike’s slim black jeans and tight button-down.  “You look hot.  You _sure_ you don’t play for my team?”

“Totally sure . . . with the go-nowhere kisses to prove it.”

“Kisses _plural_?  I thought _I_ was the only boy you’d kissed.”

Mike shrugs and blushes a little.  “We were only thirteen.  I figured I needed to give it another try, just to be sure.”

“Uh huh.  So.  Was it someone I know?”

“Nah.”  Mike waves him off.  “Just a kid when I was in Boston last summer.  It was okay, but I really prefer girls.”

“Such a shame,” Kurt clucks, teasing.  “Half the guys in first year want to get their hands on you.”

“What about you?”

Kurt runs his eyes up and down the length of Mike’s body, long and lean and almost as familiar to Kurt as his own is.  He and Mike have shared an easy physicality since they were young and he knows how Mike moves and lives in his muscles and bones.  “Oh honey, I’ve _had_ my hands on you.  You’re totally worth it.”

“Good.”  Mike claps his hands together.  “Then get dressed and come out with me.  You can tell Tina all about my stellar qualities.”  He flings Kurt’s closet open and pulls out a pair of black pants almost as tight as his own and a purple tank top.  “Here, wear these.  Show off your arms and you’ll have boys all over you.”

“What if I don’t _want_ boys all over me?  And are you _sure_ you’re not gay?”

“Then you’ll come with and let off a little steam.  You’re too stressed; it isn’t good for your dancing.  And if kissing you didn’t convert me when we were kids, I’m pretty sure that nothing will make me gay.  It’s just your good influence rubbing off on me.  Now,” he pointed a finger at Kurt, “drop the laundry, get your ass dressed, and let’s get _out_ of here.”

**

“Why did I let you talk me into this?” Puck asks, turning away from the bar to hand Tina her Sprite. 

“Because otherwise you’d be sitting home coloring Shrinky Dinks with your _sister_ ,” Tina replies, taking a large gulp of soda and then holding the cup up over her head so she can shimmy through the crowd to the dance floor. 

Puck follows more slowly, taking smaller sips of ginger ale and wishing that he _were_ back at home; the club feels too familiar, too much like all the parties he’s been to.  Everyone wants to see and be seen, and he just wants to blend in and feel like a real part of something for once instead of constantly living on the edges.  He tucks himself along the periphery of the room, moving from one spot to another as Tina bounces around the dance floor.  He knows she can take care of herself, he just doesn’t want to lose her in the mass of constantly-moving bodies.

There are people continuously moving in and out of the club.  Puck makes a game out of guessing how much time will pass before door opens and whether the people entering will be boys or girls, couples or groups of friends.  When Puck flicks his gaze from Tina back to the door he sees Kurt and his friend, the one he walks with most days, making their way inside.  He blinks because . . . wow.  Kurt’s wearing a tank top that shows off his arms, and Puck had no idea he was hiding a body like _that_ under his jeans and sweatshirts.  “Fuuuucccck,” he groans, dropping his head back against the wall and wondering if it’s too late to make a hasty exit.

It’s not that he doesn’t like Kurt; he _does_ , but something about him, about their strange not-quite friendship, feels incredibly complicated and he’s not sure he wants to deal with it at all tonight.

“You having fun?” Tina asks, sliding into the space next to him, twisting her hair into a loose bun.  Her cheeks are flushed and she’s breathing heavily.

“Sure,” he says, noncommittal.  “It’s fine.”

Tina stares at him doubtfully.  “Sure.  If it’s fine then why do you look like a deer in headlights?”

“I don’t.”  He tries to stop staring at Kurt, but he can’t.

“You totally do.  See someone you like?”

“You could say that.”

Tina squeals and grips his elbow.  “Is it your dancer?”

“Yeah.”

“Then what are you waiting for?  Dance with him.”

“I don’t dance.  Not anymore.”  Not after Quinn, not after making stupid mistake after stupid mistake.  He’s _done_ with that, with the partying and random hookups.  Watching other people take his baby girl home from the hospital hurt more than even his dad leaving, and he figures that he owes it to the universe to at least stop being a complete dumbass.  Even if he never makes anything of himself, if he can finish high school without fucking up again he’ll be pretty happy.

“Oh, come on.”  Tina tugs on his sleeve, dragging him across the crowded room to the bar.  “You’re not _chicken_ , are you?”

“Fuck you.”  Puck knows a dare when he hears one and he’s _not_ afraid.  Not really.  It’s just that boys have never been more than a casual thing for him, meant for closed doors and wine coolers.  Kurt feels different, special, and it’s _not_ fear bubbling in his stomach, it’s potential.

It’s potential, and it’s fucking terrifying.

He’s _Puck_.  He doesn’t do serious.  In fact, he’s never really even _dated_ anyone.  He’s never, before, but he wants to now.

“Go on,” Tina urges, a hand firm on his hip.  “At least say hi.”

Puck breathes deeply, sets his sweating plastic cup on the bar and reaches over without a word, taking Kurt’s cup out of his unsuspecting hand and setting it next to his own.  “Dance with me,” he says while Kurt’s still turning, still clearly figuring out what’s happening.

“Puck-” he starts to say, but Puck just holds tight to Kurt’s hand and leads him to the dance floor.

“Just dance with me.  Please.”

Kurt looks at the floor and shakes his head.  “I look like an idiot on the dance floor.”  

Puck holds up a hand.  “How is that even _possible_?  All those dance lessons and you can’t dance?”

“This kind of dancing?” Kurt sweeps his hand at all the people around them.  “This isn’t _my_ kind of dancing.  It feels all wrong.”

“Shhhh,” Puck hushes because words are meaningless and he can’t really hear Kurt anyway over the thudding of the music and the way his blood is pounding in his head.  “Come here.”  He tucks a hand at the small of Kurt’s back and shifts their bodies close together.  It’s not _that_ different from those parties.  He knows how to do this.

Kurt blushes and Puck feels him resist briefly before he gives in, following Puck’s movements with his body.

It’s not supposed to be different from those parties, but once he settles into the motion, into the push and pull of Kurt in his space, it sure _feels_ different.

Puck leans in, his lips close to Kurt’s ear.  “You look really hot,” he says, and he’s close enough to feel Kurt shudder.

“Thanks.”  His voice is low, and it crackles a little. 

“Are you nervous?”

“No,” Kurt shakes his head.  His hair is soft against Puck’s cheek. 

“Liar,” Puck challenges, because he can feel the tension in Kurt’s body.  “I’m not going to hurt you; we’re just dancing.”

“It’s never _just dancing_.  Not for me.”  Kurt straightens his stance and steps away from Puck’s touch.  “I shouldn’t have come, I had a long day and I’m tired.  I think I’m going to go.”

“Your boy doesn’t need you?”  Puck tips his head to where Tina and Kurt’s friend are huddled close on chrome and vinyl bar stools.

“Looks like Mike is doing just fine on his own.  He’s been crushing on her since the summer.”

“Can I –” Puck licks his lips and reaches out for Kurt’s hand.  “It’s late, and it’s a little far.  Can I walk you home?”

“Promise you won’t bite?” 

“Promise.” 

Kurt nods and follows Puck over to Tina and Mike.  “I’m gonna walk Kurt home.  You two have fun,” he says and kisses Tina on her cheek. 

“Don’t wait up,” Mike tells Kurt and Kurt taps his watch. 

“Don’t miss curfew and I won’t.”

“Deal.  Have fun.”  Mike waves and winks at Kurt, who ducks his head.  It’s lighter so close to the bar and Puck is pretty sure that Kurt’s blushing again.

Puck doesn’t say a word, just leads Kurt toward the door and then out onto the oddly quiet street.

**

Puck strides down the sidewalk like he owns the city.  Kurt’s more than a little envious of his confidence, because even though he’s been here for over a year, he still has days when he feels like New York would eat him alive if he stops for even half a second. 

“You don’t have to do this.  I’m a big boy, I can get myself home,” Kurt calls to Puck’s back, jogging a little to catch up to him.  “And would you _please_ slow down?”

“I thought dancers were supposed to be supreme athletes,” Puck teases, but he waits for Kurt to reach his side before taking off again, a little more slowly. 

“Yeah, well.  I had two classes _and_ an afternoon of rehearsal today.  I was already in my pajamas when Mike made me come out with him.”

Puck grins sheepishly.  “That’s okay.  I was going to do crafts with my sister.  I won’t tell anyone about our exciting lives if you won’t.”

“Deal.”  They walk in silence for a few blocks, bodies close but not touching.  Puck stops short in front of a well-lit storefront and holds the door open for Kurt. 

“Coffee?  If you have time, I mean.”

“Make it a hot chocolate and you have a deal.”

The shop is empty, save for them and the weary-looking girl behind the counter; Kurt twirls a wooden stirring stick through the whipped cream on top of his cocoa and flicks his tongue to lick it off the edge.  Puck just stares at him.

“What?” he asks, defensive.

“I thought dancers were all concerned about their weight and shit.”

Kurt shrugs.  “I burn calories pretty fast.  It’s a lot worse for the girls.  I don’t envy them, really, between the constant dieting and the whole pointe shoe thing.”  He shudders at the thought; he’s _seen_ what those shoes do to Heidi’s feet.  “Enough about dancing for now.  Are you some kind of musical prodigy or something, Mr. I-Play-Three-Instruments?”

“Nah.”  Puck shakes his head.  “At least, I don’t think so.  It’s like the music keeps me out of trouble.  That’s why I started, in any case.  Now it’s just what I do.  It helps my Ma and it’s _still_ the only time my brain is quiet.”

Kurt nods.  He knows what that feels like, the desperate desire for stillness and silence when the world outside is roiling and raucous.  “Are you going to study music in college?”

Puck stares again, but this time there’s something dark and angry in his eyes, something hard in his gaze.  “College isn’t for me,” he says without inflection.  “And neither is music.”

“Even if you love it?”

“ _Especially_ because I love it.  I can’t- my Ma lost enough when my dad walked out on us.  I can’t do that to her.  She still thinks that music took him away.”

Kurt is surprised by Puck’s candor; sharing the details from his own life is always much more difficult for him.  “Did it?”

“I don’t know for sure, but I do know that he was a drunk, belligerent asshole who hated _me_ , so I highly doubt it.  Music is just my Ma’s excuse for why he didn’t stay.  It’s easier to believe that than to admit that he never loved any of us.”

“So what will you do, after you graduate?”

“I’m not thinking about that yet.  I’ll figure it out when I get there, I suppose.”

Kurt nods, downs the last of his cocoa, and sits back in his chair.  The girl behind the counter is pacing impatiently and Kurt knows without looking that it’s getting close to curfew.  “I need to get back.  The dorm has a curfew for everyone under 18.”

“Oh, man, that sucks for you.”

Kurt smiles a little half-smile.  “Tell me about it.  Not that I’m a night owl, usually, but it would be nice to have a little more time.” 

He watches while Puck busses their table; they both say goodnight to the girl and Puck holds the door for him again.  “Such a gentleman,” he says.  “Thank you.”

“You’re welcome,” Puck replies.  As soon as they’re both on the sidewalk he takes Kurt’s hand.  “Is this okay?”

“Yeah.  But I don’t – I mean, what are you doing?  What are _we_ doing?”

“Hell if I know,” Puck admits.  “I don’t usually do this.  Okay, I _never_ do this.”

“And what exactly _is_ this?”

Puck squeezes his hand once ducking his head so that it’s almost swallowed by the folds of his leather jacket.  “Walking a hot guy home.”

“I’m not hot,” Kurt says, more from habit than anything else.  Every day he has to stare at himself in mirrors.  He _knows_ what his body is, what it can do.  While it’s a functional tool for his dancing he is pretty sure that he’s not anyone’s idea of hot.

“Are too,” Puck argues, running his knuckles along the side of Kurt’s arm.  Kurt shivers.  “Killer arms.  Don’t tell me you didn’t pick this outfit out on purpose.”

“Mike picked it.”

“Well.  He picked well.  It leaves little to the imagination.”  He pokes a finger against Kurt’s side.  When Kurt twists away he can feel Puck’s palm slide across his abdomen.  “Holy _shit_ , you’ve got muscles.”

Kurt snorts, undignified and laughing.  “No shit, Sherlock.  I _dance_ at least 5 hours a day, sometimes more.  I lift girls, toss them into the air, and catch them without dropping them.  Of _course_ I have muscles.”

“So you’re gonna do that, dance for a living?”

“For as long as I can.  I have one more year left with the Joffrey, and then with any luck I’ll get an apprenticeship or corps de ballet position with San Francisco Ballet.  I went there for the first time when I was 13, for their summer program, and it was just . . . perfect.”  Kurt remembers what it felt like, being away from home for the first time, being in a big city.  Being someplace where he didn’t have to hide who he was.  It was liberating; back then he couldn’t wait to start living his life. 

“Why are you here, then, instead of there?”

“My dad,” Kurt starts to explain.  “He knew what San Francisco meant to me and I think he was scared that I’d grow up too fast there.  Mike and I, we grew up together.  He’s the one who wanted to come here, so I went along to the auditions.  When I got in, my dad agreed to let me come.  I think it was really because Mike and I would be here together.  I still go to the summer program in San Francisco, though.”

Puck slows as they pass the Joffrey building, looks at Kurt with a puzzled glance.  “I don’t know where you live.”

“I’ll show you,” Kurt says.  This time _he_ takes _Puck’s_ hand.  It doesn’t feel so strange, now, and he’s suddenly a little reluctant to let the night come to an end.  He leads Puck through the maze of streets to the dorm; their footsteps are muffled by the thin layer of leaves already falling from the neighborhood trees.  “Thank you for walking me, and for the coffee.  This was fun.”

Puck’s eyes look dark even under the street lamp.  He rubs his hand over the back of his neck.  “I’m gonna regret this,” he mumbles almost to himself. 

“Excuse me?”

“You’re gonna be gone for the summer and this is never gonna be your home.  I’m probably never going to go anywhere but this damn neighborhood.  But I _like_ you and I want—”

Kurt starts to ask Puck what he wants, but the words are barely formed before Puck winds a hand along the back of Kurt’s neck and kisses him. 

It’s been a long time since Kurt has kissed anyone.  It takes him a few seconds to get over the shock of it and give in to the pressure of Puck’s mouth on his. 

It feels good.

It feels better than it should, to be kissing this boy he still really barely knows.

Kurt wants to give in, to let his body and his mind go, but Puck has gotten closer to Kurt than anyone except his family and Mike, and it’s too much. 

It’s too much, but he can’t pull away.

In the end he doesn’t have to, because Puck does it first.

“I’m sorry,” Puck says, low, his body still leaning toward Kurt even though they’re not touching at all.

“Don’t be.”  Kurt looks at him, smiling softly.  “It was good.”

“Yeah?”  Puck shuffles from foot to foot and he looks embarrassed.  “I don’t know what I’m doing.  I don’t usually do . . . well.  It doesn’t usually _matter_ , you know?”

“And this does?”  Kurt isn’t sure what to think; he doesn’t need the complication of romance at _all_ in his life right now and he _definitely_ doesn’t need it with someone who’s almost as unsure as Kurt himself is.

“It could.  It _could_ matter, if we want it to.”  Kurt can almost hear the words Puck isn’t saying: _please want it to._

“I don’t know if I can do this.  It doesn’t seem fair to either of us.”  Sometimes Kurt _hates_ the honesty that makes him appear cold and distant.  “I need to think about it.”

Puck nods, seemingly content.  “I can respect that.  So I’ll see you Monday?”  He kicks the pavement with his toe and sends leaves scattering gently. 

“Monday,” Kurt agrees, a lump in his throat.  He walks slowly backwards toward the door, wishing that he had a little more courage to step forward instead and kiss Puck again, but no matter how hard he tries he can’t convince his feet to move.  He palms his keycard and waves a little at Puck.  He hopes that Puck will just _go_ already, but he waits there until Kurt swipes his key and opens the door.  Kurt turns around and looks, though, once he’s in the entryway, but the sidewalk is empty.  Kurt signs in at the desk – he’s made curfew with fifteen minutes to spare – and decides to take the stairs instead of the elevator because three flights will give him some time to come up with answers before he has to face Mike’s questions.

**

“Did you have fun last night?” Sarah asks when Puck stumbles out of the bedroom into the kitchen just after 10 on Sunday morning.  He drops into his chair, staring through bleary eyes while Sarah pushes the box of Fruit Loops across the table to him.

“It was fine.”  He reaches into the box, grabs a handful of cereal, and crunches it dry.

“No- _ah_ ,” Sarah scolds.  “Jeez.  That’s _gross_.”

He stands, crosses around the table to the dish drainer, and snags a bowl and a spoon.  “Happy?” he asks once he’s poured cereal and milk into the bowl.

“Yes.  So.  Just _fine_?”

“Kurt was there,” he blurts before he can stop himself. 

Sarah drops her spoon against the side of her bowl with a clatter and much splashing of milk.  “And?” she asks, clearly irritated.

“And what?  He was there.  We danced a little, talked a little, and I walked him home.”

“Uh huh.”  Sarah just looks at him and something in her eyes makes Puck squirm.  “How was the kiss?”

Puck shovels a spoonful of cereal into his mouth and thinks while he chews about whether to lie to Sarah or not.  “How are you so sure we kissed?” he asks once he’s swallowed.

“You like him.  He clearly likes you enough to dance with you and walk home with you.  If you didn’t kiss him then you’re an even bigger dumbass than I thought.”

Puck swirls his spoon through the pink-colored milk in his bowl.  “Then I guess it’s good that I kissed him because I’d _hate_ to be even more of a dumbass than I already am.”

“So was it good?  You better call him.  He seems nice, he doesn’t deserve to be treated the way you usually treat your hook-ups.”  Damn if Sarah doesn’t know how to scold him worse than their Ma ever has.

“I’m not going to ignore him.  He’s a nice guy, and it was . . .” he lets his voice trail off, fixes his gaze on the slightly peeling edge of plastic coating the tabletop.  “It was the best kiss I’ve ever had, okay?”  His voice is soft and he feels a little bit of regret when he thinks of all the people he’s kissed and done more with.  He’s never wanted it all back before, not even Quinn and the baby, but something about Kurt feels different and Puck wishes, just a little, that he wasn’t so jaded and disillusioned.

Sarah chuckles and shakes her head before getting up and taking her bowl to the sink.  “You’re so far gone already,” she teases over the running water.  “You don’t even realize it yet.  I hope you don’t break his heart.”

“I won’t,” Puck insists, but his stomach flip-flops and he thinks for half a second that it’s much more likely _Kurt_ will break _his_ heart.

He sleeps through his alarm Monday morning.  Once he gets Sarah ready and out the door, a granola bar and a banana in her backpack for a mobile breakfast, he’s left to dash to the subway with no time for playing before school.  After school, he gets pulled into the counselor’s office for a _chat about your future, Noah_ , and it’s closing in on 4:30 before he emerges from the subway again, half a block each from the community center and the ballet school.  He _should_ try to find Kurt, but he has to get Sarah and the talk with his counselor has left him itchy under his skin.  He could use a little talk with Ms. Bergen; he’s not sure why, but she still believes in his talent, that he will do great things with his music someday.

Most days Puck wants to tell her not to bother, but on days like today he secretly loves it.

Sarah’s just finishing her lesson when he knocks on the music room door.  Ms. Bergen waves him in and updates him on Sarah’s progress before she nods at Sarah to pack up her flute and head back to the community room for the rest of her things.  Once Sarah has disappeared around the corner, Ms. Bergen pulls out the piano bench and motions for Puck to sit.  “Talk to me about your plans for next year,” she says.  Puck wants to groan but he doesn’t; he owes Ms. Bergen the truth at least.

“My school counselor isn’t sure my academic grades are good enough for college even though I’m apparently talented enough for a music program.”

“And what do you want?”

Puck tries to lean back, but the cover is up on the piano and he knocks the keys noisily with his elbow.  “I don’t know,” he says once the echoing has stopped.  “You _know_ me, I don’t make plans like that.  And don’t give me that shit about dreaming for me.  I’m not eleven anymore.”

“No,” Ms. Bergen agrees.  “You are most definitely not eleven anymore, Noah, but you are still one of the most driven and talented students I’ve had come through those doors.  Even _if_ you didn’t really want to be here.  I just wish you’d give music a chance for your future.  It’s a part of you, regardless of all the ways you try to deny it.”

Puck scoffs.  “Right.  Like anyone’s gonna pay me to make a career covering other people’s songs, or playing violin in some orchestra.  I honestly don’t think I’m the symphony type.”  He runs a hand over his mohawk.  “I don’t know what parts of this are me and what are just pretend.  How can I figure out where I’m going if I don’t know who I am?”

Ms. Bergen sits silently for a long moment, which makes Puck uncomfortable.  He fidgets on the piano bench until she puts a careful hand on his arm.  “Do you remember the night you told me about the baby?”

Puck wants to forget it but he can’t, fifteen and sick with the idea that he’d fucked up two other lives beside his own.  “My dad always told me I was a dumb shit and I honestly never believed it until that day.”  Ms. Bergen had hugged him while he cried in this same room where she’d taught him to play his anger out on strings and ivory, when he admitted the things that hurt him the most.  _I can’t raise another baby_.

“That was the most real you’d ever been with me, Noah.  You knew your limitations and you wanted more for that baby than you could give.  You’re very aware of yourself, no matter how much you try to deny it.  Don’t think, just answer.  What do you want in five years?”

It’s hard _not_ to think, but Puck’s known from the time his dad left what he wants from his own adult life.  “I don’t want to be stuck like my Ma.”  He doesn’t want to live filled with hate, or to be so dragged down into life that he’s barely even _living_.  He doesn’t want to live check to check, or to look around and wonder not only how he got somewhere but whether he’ll ever get out.  “I like playing and singing, but it’s not going to give me anything more than what I already have.”

Ms. Bergen tilts her head and looks at him.  It feels a little like she’s looking _through_ him, but she must like what she sees because she smiles gently at him.  “Be here tomorrow at 4.  I have an idea.”

Puck shakes his head.  “I can’t.  I gotta play.  You’ve seen how fast Sarah’s   winter’s coming.”  He tries not to think about snow boots and a new winter coat, because _none_ of her last-year’s clothes fit anymore.

“One day isn’t going to break you.  If everything works out, it’ll be a job for you and maybe a little direction.  One day.”

Puck knows he owes Ms. Bergen.  He probably owes her his life, because he really was a messed up little kid when he started in her class.  “One day,” he finally agrees.

“Thank you, Noah.”  She nods to the door, where Sarah is peering in through the little square pane of glass, wrinkling her nose at him.  “I think someone is ready to go home.”

“Yeah.”  Puck rubs the back of his neck.  “Thanks.  Sometimes . . .” he wants to tell Ms. Bergen so much: about the ways she’s helped him over the years; the peace he feels after talking with her; the ways he doesn’t have to pretend at anything with her, but he doesn’t have any of the right words for that.  He sighs and shakes his head.  “Just, thank you.”

She pulls him into a hug and tells him _you’re welcome_ like she knows what he wants to anyway.  He’s grateful to her for saving him the struggle.

“You okay?” Sarah asks while they walk home, both of them a little silent and, for Sarah at least, oddly pensive. 

“Yeah.  You?”

Sarah shrugs, her backpack rising and falling with the motion.  “I guess.”  She doesn’t say more until they’re rounding the corner of their block.  She drops onto the stoop of the first building they pass and sets her flute case on the sidewalk.  “Ms. Bergen wants me to try out for SMS, especially since the high school will be opening next year.  I told her no.  She laughed and said that you and I are the most stubborn kids she’s ever met.”

“She’s right.  We _are_ stubborn and you _should_ audition.”

Sarah shakes her head with vehemence.  “I _like_ who I am, No-ey.  I don’t want to have to change the way you did when you went there.”

Puck wraps his arm over her shoulders, navigating the bulk of her backpack with a little difficulty.  “Shit, Sassy.”  He kisses the top of her head and blinks away the tears that he wants to pretend aren’t forming in his eyes.  He’s not sure if they’re from her use of her toddler-hood nickname for him or the knowledge that his sister is _so much_ wiser than he will ever be.  “You’re so much stronger than I am.  You wouldn’t need to change to survive there.  I just don’t know how to be all the things people want from me.”

Sarah leans into him.  “Why doesn’t Ma hate my music the way she hates yours?”

“I think I remind her too much of Dad.  She told me once that she thought he was going to be her ticket out of here, big famous musician and whatever, but he didn’t care enough about her or _us_ to make it happen.  He was all big dreams and no follow-through, or so she always tells me.”

“What do _you_ remember?”

Puck breathes out roughly.  Sometimes, though not too often anymore, in those moments when he’s still and quiet he can still feel the sting of his father’s hand on his face, can hear the unwarranted anger in his voice over the smallest infractions.  “Dad was an abusive asshole and we’re better off without him.” 

It’s all he can say.  He wishes he didn’t feel trapped by his father’s absence, by the ghost of his memory, all the ways he failed the family he left behind; Ms. Bergen was right, it’s influenced him more than he ever realized.  Puck sighs and nudges Sarah with his knee.  “You should audition, Sassy.  Give yourself a chance to do better than me and Ma.”

Sarah drops her head against his shoulder, and her hair tickles against his neck and cheek.  She doesn’t use that baby shampoo anymore, now it’s something tropical and fruity.  It’s been a long time since they’ve been physically close like this.  He breathes in coconut and pineapple and runs a hand over her curls.  He feels her take a breath; when she speaks her voice is hushed in way it almost never is.  “I want to go with you when you move out.”

“Who says I’m moving out?” 

“I mean, I know you’re not going anywhere right away, but I wanted to tell you.  Please don’t leave me with Ma.  I’m not sure she could take care of me the way you do.”

“I can’t just _take_ you with me, and Ma will never let you.  Hell,” he laughs, light but a little strained, “she might not even let _me_ move out.” 

“Well.  Like you said, you’re not going anywhere right now.  Just, think about it please?”

Puck wants to ask her what else is wrong, because it feels like there’s more that she wants to talk about, but he can’t quite find the words.  It’ll hold, he knows.  They’ll have plenty of other chances to talk.

**

Kurt doesn’t see Puck when he gets to the studio Monday morning and he has to teach once trainee classes are done for the day.  It’s after six again before he heads toward home.  He tries not to worry about having done or said something wrong Saturday night.  He doesn’t let people in very often and he worries all the time that his awkwardness is going to turn away the ones who do get close.

He’s just so much more comfortable speaking with his body rather than his voice.

He sleeps, that night, but it’s exhaustion more than anything that forces his eyes closed before 10 pm.  He wakes again when it’s still dark and all he can focus on is getting out early enough so that he can catch Puck at the coffee shop. 

He tells himself that he doesn’t care if Puck doesn’t want to see him again, he just needs to _know_. 

He gets dressed and packs his bag, finger-combs his hair with wet fingers, and brushes his teeth.  He’s still rubbing sleep from his eyes when he steps into the still-cool morning and walks right into Puck.  He’s leaning against the gate at the front of the residence, two cups nestled in a cardboard tray and a white bakery bag tucked between the cups. 

Kurt smells the coffee and the combination of butter and warm sugar emanating from the bag.  He takes a careful step toward Puck.  “Good morning,” he says by way of greeting.  “I missed you yesterday.”

“Me, too,” Puck tells him.  “It was an insane day.  I was late for school, then my stupid counselor kept me after, and I had to pick Sarah up after her lesson.”  He rubs his hand over his face and Kurt sees something hard and fatigued hover there, in Puck’s eyes. 

“Hey,” Kurt takes the coffee tray into his hands.  “Did you sleep last night?”

“A little,” Puck shrugs, like he’s used to it.  Kurt supposes that might be the case; _he’s_ used to it, at least.  He’s no stranger to his own sleepless nights.  “It’ll be okay.  I need to eat and then I’ll be fine.”

“Uh huh.”  Kurt starts off in the direction of the park; it’ll be pretty well quiet this early, nothing but the occasional jogger and dog walker and bleary-eyed parents wheeling babies that never quite look done yet in strollers as fancy as SUVs.  “C’mon.  We have a lot of time before either one of us has to be anywhere.”

They eat their muffins and sip at their coffee on a park bench, listening to the city grow more alive around them.  When the food is nothing but crumbs stuck to crinkled paper wrappers and their cups are as empty as they can get them, Kurt holds his hand out.  “Give me your phone.”

Puck blinks at him, still a little slow and sleepy but not looking quite as wrecked.  He fishes his phone out of his jeans pocket and rests it in Kurt’s palm.  “Why?”

Kurt taps on the keypad, navigates the menus and options, and types his number in.  “Next time you can’t sleep, call or text.  I can’t be out after midnight, but I could talk to you.”  He gives Puck the phone back.  “I don’t always sleep well.”

“Why not?  What do you have to worry about?”

Kurt has been waiting for it, for the assumption that his life is some kind of magic because he has this incredible opportunity to live his dream.  He just hadn’t expected it to happen so soon.

“What _don’t_ I have to worry about?  My dad had a heart attack last fall, so his health is one thing.  Being away from him and my stepmom and brother.  Losing my scholarship.  Failing.”  He balls the bakery bag in his hands, lifts his arm, and lobs the bag into the nearby trashcan.  “Nothin’ but net,” he says, more out of habit than anything else.  “I worry about not being worth it.” 

Puck doesn’t offer reassurances, which kind of makes Kurt glad.  They don’t _really_ know each other well enough for that yet.  Instead, he just nods.  “Yeah, I get that,” he mutters and that’s the last they talk of it that day.

Anyone watching on those early mornings in the park would be hard-pressed to identify what, exactly, is going on between the two boys who occupy the bench closest to the fountain.  They are friendly, sitting close and talking, sometimes laughing.  Other days they are serious and silent. 

Angela Marks knows Kurt; he’s the trainee assistant in her four year old son’s pre-ballet class.  Theo adores him, calls him _Mister Kurt_ and says that he wants to dance _just like that_ when he’s big.  Angela offers Kurt a smile and a wave when she passes by the bench where he sits with the boy who plays guitar a lot outside of the coffee shop.  She sees them every weekday morning in the half hour between 6:30 and 7 that’s hers for walking Banjo and getting coffee and a muffin from Mrs. Costa before she has to dive into the ridiculous logistics of getting herself ready for work and Theo ready for pre-school and both of them out the door before 8:15.

Jenny Ramirez knows the Puckerman boy; he’d already gone on to SMS before she started teaching at the elementary school, but he’s always still been around, taking care of his sister.  Sarah is in her fifth grade class this year, a conscientious student and a talented musician.  She hears the talk in the teacher’s lounge about the siblings, about _the trouble_ some of the teachers heard Noah got into a year or two back, but Jenny’s never been one to believe gossip.  She’s _seen_ the way he is, with Sarah, when he picks her up at school.  When she congratulated Sarah for her much improved math grade the week before, Sarah just smiled and thanked her and said that her brother would be happy since he’d been helping her with her math.  She nods at him, during her jog.  Sometimes he waves, others he smiles.  One day he rolls his eyes and when he says something to the boy with him, they both laugh.  She doesn’t really know, and doesn’t really care, whether they’re friends or boyfriends or what.  She’s just happy that Noah has someone to care about _him;_ she worries that he’s far too young to spend so much time caring for his sister.

Nobody ever sees them together outside of these mornings. 

Angela is running late one morning, feeling sluggish and not quite like taking Banjo on their full loop of the park, so she stops at the coffee shop first and bumps into the guitar player.  “I’m sorry,” she apologizes when her shoulder jostles his tray of coffee.  “It’s one of those mornings.”

He crinkles his eyes at her.  “Me, too.  No worries.”  And he’s gone before she can say anything else.

“He seems like a nice boy,” she says to Mrs. Costa when she reaches the counter and hands over the $5 she always tucks into her bra for her usual: large black coffee and a chocolate chip muffin, with enough left over for the tip jar.

“Noah’s always been so quiet.  It’s good to see him so happy now.  They’re good boys, the both of them.”

Angela ponders this for a moment and then nods in decision.  “I’ll buy their breakfast tomorrow,” she says firmly, but Mrs. Costa shakes her head.  “You can’t tomorrow.  Jenny who teaches Noah’s sister buys on Thursdays.  But you can have Friday, if you want.”

“Do other people buy too?”

Mrs. Costa laughs.  “Poor Noah probably thinks I’m comping him because I used to babysit him when he was little.  I think they’d _both_ be a little embarrassed if they knew.  One of the teachers at the ballet has Mondays, Mr. Inman from the dry cleaners takes Tuesdays, and the music teacher at the community center buys today.  With you on Fridays now, we’ve filled up the week.”

“Are they . . . dating?”

Mrs. Costa shrugs.  “Dating, not dating, I don’t think it really matters.  They’re good for each other, those two.  It makes people happy to see it.”

Angela takes her coffee and her muffin and wends her way slowly to the park.  Instead of walking through on the path, she settles onto the bench across from the boys, hooks Banjo’s leash around her wrist, and lets him sniff the trash can and the grass while she eats .  Noah has his guitar out, playing something soft.   Kurt is leaning on his hand, his elbow propped on the back of the bench.  He’s smiling, his foot jiggling along to the rhythm of Noah’s guitar. 

Angela’s just finishing the last bite of her muffin when there’s movement beside her.  The woman she sees every day jogging, plugged into headphones, joins her with a coffee of her own.  “Mrs. Costa said you’re taking Fridays,” the woman says without preamble or introduction.

“Yeah.”  Angela nods, taking in the woman’s slightly worn running shoes, bleach-spotted yoga pants, and t-shirt with fraying hem and cuffs.  “You’re clearly not Mr. Inman from the dry cleaners and I don’t recognize you from the Joffrey, so you’re either _Jenny who teaches Noah’s sister_ or _the music teacher from the community center_.”

The woman sticks out her hand.  “Jenny Ramirez.  I teach at P.S. 41, fifth grade.  I have Noah’s sister Sarah in my class.”

“Angela Marks.  Kurt is the assistant in my son’s ballet class.”

“What’s your order?”  Jenny flicks her eyes to Angela’s empty cup and pastry bag sitting between them on the bench.

“Large black and a chocolate chip muffin.  You?”

“Large cream and sugar and an apple Danish.”

They take turns, after that, buying breakfast for each other and sitting in the park watching two boys fall in love as the weather cools and the leaves start to fall.

“It’s way too early for this,” Puck grumbles as he dusts snow off his jacket and pulls his hat off, sending flakes flying in the doorway of the music room.

Brendan pokes his violin case with the toe of his sneaker and scowls.  “My mom didn’t believe the weather guy this morning, so I didn’t have a hat or mittens or _anything_.  It’s fucking _cold_ out there.”

“Language,” Puck scolds, taking his hat and tugging it down onto Brendan’s head.  “Extra scales for you today, dude.”

“Like you don’t swear as much as I do.” 

“Aaaah, but at least I have money for Ms. Bergen’s swear jar.  You, little man, need lunch more than you need to put change in the jar.  And don’t give me that pouty face.  I played more extra scales my first year than I’ve probably played since.  I _might_ even hold the record, so you have a long way to go to catch up.”  Puck takes his violin out while he talks and nods for Brendan to do the same.

He’s a good kid, really.  He’s a lot like Puck was when he first started playing, defiant and angry, but somehow driven no matter how much he grumbles about being _forced_ to learn the violin.  Puck catches him, sometimes, eyeing Puck’s guitar case hungrily; he’s already decided to teach Brendan guitar, but he needs more work on the violin first.  “C’mon,” he urges, standing and setting a sheet of music on the music stand.  “Scales first, then we’re gonna try something new.”

Brendan frowns at the music.  “I can’t play _that_ , it’s too hard!”

“You can _totally_ play this.  Don’t tell me you aren’t ready to claw your eyes out if I make you play _Baa Baa Black Sheep_ again.”

Brendan scrunches his face into a smile.  “I _hate_ that song.”

“I know.”  Puck nudges Brendan’s leg with the tip of his bow.  “So let’s warm up, and then you can show me what you can do.  You’re ready for the challenge.”

They play together, scales and the other warm-up exercises Puck has taught Brendan in the six weeks since he’s been giving the kid lessons, before Puck taps the new song with his finger.  “Okay.  Don’t over-think it.”  He counts the beat out with his foot on the floor and Brendan launches into the piece.  It’s a simple minuet.  Brendan practically attacks it.  He gets a little hung up on the fingerings in the middle, but for a sight reading of something harder than he’s ever played he does surprisingly well.  Even so, he kicks angrily at the music stand when he finishes. 

“Why couldn’t I get those fingerings right?  I’m so _stupid_.”

“Dude.”  Puck drops to the floor, sitting cross-legged and setting his violin carefully into its case.  “Relax.  You did great for your first time seeing that.”

“You _have_ to say that,” Brendan says, stomping over to the window.  “You’re paid to teach me no matter what.”

“Not true,” Puck tells him.  “I’m helping Ms. Bergen.  I can be done whenever, and you could go back to _Baa Baa_ and _Twinkle Twinkle_ in the beginner’s class, but we both know you’re better than that.”

When Brendan turns back from the window his arms are crossed over his chest.  “Why does it matter to you, how well I play?”

Puck runs a hand over his head.  “Because I know what it’s like to have people tell you that you’re stupid and worthless.  Most days, the only time I _don’t_ feel like that is when I’m playing music.”  _Or when I’m with Kurt_ , he thinks to himself.

Brendan stares at Puck for a long minute before coming back and picking up his violin.  He tucks it under his chin, readies his bow, and stops.  “Well?  Are we gonna play this again or what?”

**

Kurt sees Sarah first, darting out the door of the community center with Puck on her heels.  He almost wishes Puck had been first out the door, because the longer he’s waited, the heavier the envelope has gotten.  He just wants to be rid of it, to let go of the burden of needing to ask _I want you to come and see me dance_.  

Kurt’s just not used to wanting things, or wanting _people_ , the way he wants Puck.  

He shifts the envelope from one hand to the other, feeling the sharp folded edge of the paper and the stiffness of the tickets inside.  He’s thinking about the best way to even bring it up, because so far they haven’t asked much of each other outside of companionship and the occasional careful touches of hands under clothes, against skin, silent and close and wanting.  

Kurt smiles at him through the snow and reaches out to take his hand.  He wants to pull Puck close and kiss him, but they never do, on the street.  He just settles for the contact they can have and squeezes Puck’s hand.

“What’s that?” Puck nods at the envelope.

“Oh, these?”  Kurt looks down, feigning surprise like the tickets haven’t been a weight in his hand all afternoon.  “They might be two tickets to _Nutcracker,_ if you know anyone who might be interested.  I mean, I know it’s another couple of weeks till the show, but I had to get the tickets for my family and I thought . . . I don’t know.”  Kurt tugs his bottom lip between his teeth.  “I’ve heard you play a lot, but you’ve never seen me dance.”

Puck stops walking.  Kurt hopes he hasn’t made a mistake.  He watches while Puck sets his instrument cases down and turns so they’re facing each other.  Kurt’s heart is thudding in his chest.  The wanting in Puck’s eyes is so blatant, Kurt knows that he could fall right into it if they were alone.  Puck moves quickly, hands on Kurt’s hips, pulling him close and kissing him hard like he read Kurt’s mind.

_Oh, God_.  Kurt shudders and fights the desire that’s rolling through him to press his whole body against Puck’s, right there on the street in the snow.

Instead he pulls away, breathing in cold air and a wayward snowflake that tickles his nose.

Puck grins and plucks the envelope out of Kurt’s hands.  “I can’t _wait_ to see you dance,” he says.  All the tension and worry that Kurt had been holding onto, that he was asking too much or assuming more than what was real, is gone in a heartbeat.  

It’s starting to get dark.  The snow is drifting, landing lightly on Puck’s mohawk; he appears to have lost his hat since their breakfast in the park.  Kurt reaches up, brushes the flakes from Puck’s hair, and they both laugh as the snow falls over both of them.

Kurt is happy.  The realization hits him suddenly, so hard his knees almost buckle.  He’s been subsisting for years, dancing for his happiness.  He never expected to find such peace in another person, especially not someone as contradictory as Puck is.

“I wasn’t even looking for you,” Kurt says almost to himself.  Puck takes his hand again and they walk to the corner where Sarah is waiting for them.   “You’ve been the best surprise.”  

There is so much more he wants to say, _has_ _wanted_ to say for weeks, but he hasn’t been able to find the words.  They bubble up now, though, as they pass back by the Joffrey studios.  

“I love you,” Kurt says softly.  He isn’t completely sure that Puck hears him until Puck stops in the little alcove between the studio and the coffee shop, the same place Kurt stood and watched him play the first morning they ate breakfast together.  Kurt takes a breath, says it louder.  “I love you.”

The moment is still and slow, muffled sounds and fading light.  It’s public, not what Kurt would have wished, but almost every moment of their relationship so far has been lived in public, at tables and on benches and on the streets of this city.  Kurt knows Puck is always the one giving, even though he’s never said those exact words; Kurt sees it in how he cares for Sarah, for Brendan, for his mother, for Kurt himself.  He watches the wonder, the realization, and the _acknowledgement_ , cross Puck’s face.

_Please say it back_ , Kurt wills.   _I don’t know if I could stand it if you don’t say it back._

“I love you, too,” Puck says, eyes closed against what, Kurt isn’t sure.  Kurt lets the words settle between them like a blanket, keeping them safe and warm and whole together.  They don’t have long, though.  Sarah is there, tugging on Puck’s jacket and Kurt’s hand.

“C’mon, guys, it’s fucking _cold_ out here.”

“Language,” Kurt and Puck say in unison.  Kurt takes Puck’s hand again, tugging them along behind Sarah, who has darted ahead impatiently.

“You should bring Sarah with you to the show.  I think she’ll enjoy it,” he says, like everything is normal and the biggest moment of their lives didn’t just happen.

Kurt always thought that love was supposed to be big, messy, and dramatic, not silent, peaceful, and aching.  

He watches Sarah ahead of them, feels the warmth of Puck’s body next to him.  He realizes that maybe their admissions weren’t the biggest moments of their lives after all; maybe the big things have already happened, the things that define them, and saying _I love you_ is just normal life.


End file.
